


Illyrian Mischief

by Effenay



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Black Markets, Case Fic, Double Life, Episode: The Abominable Bride, F/M, Fred Porlock is important, I'm Bad At Summaries, John Knows, More Molly-centric, Mystery, Plotfic, Rating May Change, References to Shakespeare, Slow Burn, TAB Molly Hooper, Tags May Change, Twelfth Night - Freeform, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, cross-dressing, fence (crime), goth like elements, more plot than a shipfic, set between the Valley of Fear (novel) and The final problem (chapter), sort of, tinges of dark humour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9827735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effenay/pseuds/Effenay
Summary: After the death of her brother and father, Margaret "Molly" Hooper takes her brother's place as a means of seeking for answers to her brother's passing.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Demand You Speak](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5176037) by [Maejones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maejones/pseuds/Maejones). 



> To those who do not know, Illyria is a reference to Shakespear's Twelfth Night.
> 
> Also as an add on as I mentioned in my tumblr post version:  
> Hi Sherlollians. I’m still trying out on this new fandom and quite frankly, it seems that my fics often come down as little flat regarding this ship. And then after watching TAB, I had an idea of a Molly-centric plot where it obviously/ could potentially have Sherlock in it as a main candidate of focus as well. Set in the Victorian era, and to those of you who are familiar with my other works outside of the fandom, I am a less romantic writer and more plot driven when it came down to writing. (of course there too much internal dialogues to add to that list). I have this thing as a prologue/trial fic and I have no idea whether I should continue on this. This fic was inspired by the fic “I demand you speak” by mae-jones whom I found through Ao3 as well as other victorian sherlolly fics that were all so wonderfully written. Okay. Here. We. Go.

It is only fitting that our story begins with death.

In the soot and smog-filled air of Victorian London, the Hooper family household mourned the loss of its head and its heir on that same month. Margaret ‘Molly’ Hooper stood before her father’s deathbed, fingers clutched at the fabric of her clothes as her tears blotted her lap.

First, it was her brother, Manuel Hooper; a man with a promising future and the only member left to carry the small legacy of their family name. Though Molly merely tolerated her brother to some extent, the news of his death was a terrible blow for her as much as it did for the rest of the family.

“How did it all go so wrong” was the question that hovered over her head as the events unfurled itself before her. At that time, she had just finished her medical degree; Manuel and her father had plans to celebrate this supposedly happy event before the tragedy occurred. To Molly and her father, it was most unsettling to know that they were never given a proper explanation of how he died. It was even more unsettling not knowing why he was found in a ditch of some unknown street.

Her father took it the hardest between the two of them; for he had high hopes for his son, only to have it all torn up. A day after the news of Manuel’s death, her father collapsed so suddenly and was reduced to a bed-ridden, heartbroken state. Molly once heard the story that her father had suffered after the loss of his wife for the first few months. To see him in such a state tore her inside and out, as he was neither eating nor drinking, much less on speaking. After the next two weeks, she knew her father wouldn’t last long and called for a doctor for a second opinion.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Hooper,” he said. “I’m afraid I cannot help you on this one.”

“Is there nothing to be done?” she fought to control the quiver of her voice, only to crack with emotion. “Please tell me, I need to know.”

The man’s eyes looked at her with pity.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But it appears that he lost the will to live. The only way for him to recover is to rekindle that will of his; give him a reason to live another day. But other than that, this matter is out of my hands.”

In her medical profession, not once had she ever thought to see a patient dying from a case of a broken heart. A sense of helplessness shook her very bones at the situation. She knew she needed to do something about it.

A day after hearing the doctor’s diagnosis, she climbed up the stairs to her brother’s former room, hoping to seek for the comfort of what remnants her brother had left behind. The rusting hinges sang as she opened the door, the wood moaning at the weight of her steps. Signs of the need for maintenance was evident at cracks on the walls.

The sight of the empty dresser across the room brought tears to her eyes. She could have sworn that she saw the silhouette of her brother sitting on the vacant chair.

“Why did you have to go?” she stifled her cries. “Oh Brother, why did you have to leave us all behind?”

She hastened her steps into the room, for once never caring about matters of propriety about entering another man’s room. She slumped into her brother’s bed to sob onto the covers, only to feel a lump underneath the mattress. She groaned at the pain she received from that bump, bringing her to pull herself out of the bed.

Molly was well aware that curiosity had its consequences, but the temptation of wanting to know what laid there underneath that layer of cotton and feathers compelled her to lift the mattress and feel what was lying beneath it.

Relying on the sense of touch, she felt a coarse object underneath the pads of her fingers. She grabbed hold of the object, and pulled it from underneath, only to reveal a worn-down cedar cigar box. Without any sort of expectation, she slid the box open and found tufts of short hairs and all assortments of accessories that could only be used for discreet disguises.

More questions were raised at the sight of the two wigs and faux moustaches and sideburns.

“Dear brother,” she whispered as her fingers rummaged through the box almost frantically. “What on earth were you up to?”

Two days after uncovering her brother’s secret possessions, her father had begun to show clearer signs of his deterioration. His cheeks began to hollow, his already withering skin sagged against the bone, and his eyes greying as he sat against the headrest of his bed. Molly held his hand, warming them in hopes of making him see her way but to no avail. He had his eyes fixed towards the window, vacant and despondent as if he were expecting someone.

“Father,” she pleaded. “You have to eat something.”

Her father answered in silence.

“You can’t go on like this,” she continued. “Please father. For your sake and mine.”

Silence.

“If Manuel were with us, he wouldn’t want to have you go on like this.”

He twitched at the sound of her brother’s name, only to have the weary man close his eyes as his face slowly contorted itself into grief.

“-Father-”

“If your brother were here,” the man lowly whispered. “I wouldn’t be like this.”

He removed his hand from her grip and rested it on his abdomen. Her eyes glistened as her tears threatened to fall down on her cheeks. She loved her father very much, just as she was well aware how much he loved her and Manuel equally. But as of this point, she couldn’t see it in her father’s eyes.

She sprung up from her seat, excused herself from her father’s room and ran straight into her brother’s room. She collapsed on top of the covers, pounding onto the soft fabrics and cried out. When there were no tears left, without a second thought she slid her arm underneath the mattress and touched the cigar box, as though she was seeking comfort or assurance in that concealed object.

For whatever reason there was, she suddenly felt inclined to seek for answers. Why did her brother have to die? What was it that killed him? For what purpose would he decide to possess a full set of disguises underneath his mattress?

She pulled out the box and slid it open once more, flicking through the tufts of hair and a tiny bottle of what she could only assume would be the substance that held the false moustache in place. She didn’t know what it was that she was looking for, but by the time she reached the bottom of the box a small yellowing piece of paper laid there.

Molly reached for the item, only to be interrupted by the sound of scratching from the window. She gasped a little, turning her head towards the window sill and spotted a cat perched outside of her brother’s window.

She propped the box on the bed and strode her way towards the window. Unlocking the latch of her window in an attempt to shoo the feline away, the furry creature pounced into the room without a care in the world.

“What are you doing here,” she said, resting a hand on her waist. “Shoo, you and I are not supposed to be here.”

The feline mewed, making its merry way around the room. She made the effort to chase after it, only to have the mischievous creature hop onto the bed and drew nearer towards the opened cigar box. As soon as the feline began to paw at the tufts of hair, she grabbed hold of the cat under its front paws. Turning it around to have it face her, she looked at the creature crossly.

“You,” she began as she darted a look at the feline, “have no right to claw your way around this room. And what on earth were you doing here, climbing three stories high above the ground, without a care about what happens to you?”

The creature answered with a mew.

She paused for a thought.

“You don’t look the sort to be scared of human company, now are you?” she said dubiously.

The cat meowed again.

She sighed as she shook her head, feeling ridiculous at the idea of scolding this four-legged animal. Molly then took notice of the side-burn pieces that clung to its claw.

“Whatever intents and purposes you have for touching those things, do not do that again,” she chided. “Do you understand?”

The feline blinked.

She nodded and sat at the edge of the bed, taking the pieces from its paw. Molly then propped the feline onto the floor, only to have it jump onto her and curl itself onto her lap.

“You know you’re making this difficult for me,” she said, darting a look at the unsuspecting feline as it yawned without a care in the world.

Having the feline restraining her movements, she twisted her torso to reach for the cigar box behind her as she returned the pieces to its proper place. When she managed to achieve her goal, her eyes returned to the cat on her lap as soon as she heard it purr loudly.

She first thought she had grown past the age of carelessly approaching a stray cat, but at the sight of this curious creature, her heart swelled in adoration almost immediately. She then caressed its fur lightly on her fingers, bringing out louder purrs with every stroke.

Molly then looked up and caught sight of her reflection, her eyes dyed with a hazel brown hue, her small lips and her pointed nose. In her recollection, there were times in the past where they were often told how she and her brother looked alike in almost every facial feature. Save for her smaller stature, the difference in the size of their jawlines along with the blatant fact that he is a man just as she is a woman.

Her thoughts then returned to her father whose mourning had taken a toll on his health. The good doctor’s advice crept into her thoughts as she tried to rake through a solution to their predicament. She wanted to wallow herself in self-pity, but the fate of her father comes first to mind.

And then, just like that, there a thought planted a seed in her mind’s eye.


	2. The boxer

Once every fortnight, there would always be a boxing match hidden in plain sight which was held in a warehouse that belonged to the man who sponsored the event. Discrete gamblers of all sorts would place their bets on the best man to win, bringing whatever pound or liquor they could afford. In all its rowdiness, a small fellow among the crowd watched fervently at the unsightly display of violence and uncivilized behaviour.

It almost seemed like a ritual now, to blend into a crowd of gamblers and spectators of all sorts; studying their stances and their mannerisms. As much as their behaviour was indeed abhorrent and without a doubt an example of what society should be deterring. Molly took the unsightly display as a mere form of education in order for her to take part of this foreign world in her eyes.

It had been almost an entire year now since her father’s passing, with her being the one and only family member left; she worked long and hard to maintain her position. With her role as a midwife, she was able to keep her maid and scullery with the amount she earned. Her circumstances had been rather fortunate despite the tragedy of losing both her brother and her father. But she couldn’t find it in her heart to find peace with it and decided to pursue the thought which led her here in this situation. With the moustache and sideburns aside, she donned her brother’s clothes that were supposedly discarded after he had grown himself out of it. Thanks to the set of disguises that her brother had left behind, she was able to fit into the scene at ease.

“Fifteen for that man on the right!”

“I wager sixteen on ‘im!”

The gamblers roared out their bets, blaring their voices like trumpets to her ears. The very notion of having to imitate such horrendous dispositions may not be something she would wish to practice every so often. She could imagine the very thought of it would send her father rolling on his grave at the horror of it all.

Having to be surrounded by an orchestra of roaring men brought out an impending headache, bringing her to excuse herself from the crowd.

“What’s wrong Hooper?” Mansworth, one of the regulars jeered at her loudly. “Too much for your taste, you pansy?”

The sound of a bone being broken echoed within the warehouse, followed by screams and another wave of roars from the cheering crowd. Molly shut her eyes in frustration as she tried to talk back to the man who belittled her, only to have her voice drowned amongst the chaos of roars.

Giving up on the idea of biting his head off with her words, she pursued the original idea and removed herself from the crowd. She had no intention of leaving the warehouse just yet and decided to climb on top of a stack of hay that had been pushed aside to make way for the crowd of gamblers.

Once she managed to get a good view of the match, there she spotted a man lying on the ground; his face contorted with pain as the victor huffed so eagerly for any new challengers.

 _Is it over?_ She asked herself.

If it was, she would definitely be peeved at the lost opportunity to observe the differing dispositions of these men for her to pick up on. If she were to become part of a man’s world in order to find information regarding her brother’s death, she would have to take in what she could observe. Even if it meant seeing such atrocious displays like these.

The crowd cheered as a man stepped into the open space, accepting the victor’s challenge as he began to discard his upper garments. His stature was tall and lean, his hair was kept and slicked back; from where she stood, Molly could hardly distinguish his figure as his back was turned to her direction. He turned around briefly to toss his upper garments aside to a shorter man and within that instant, she recognized his profile.

 _What is he doing here?_ She panicked at the realization.

Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective whom she had crossed paths with while she took her brother’s place as a man on mortuary duty. To make matters worse, she was always at odds with him whenever they meet. Seeing him in the middle of the ring with his bare torso out in the open brought a flush to her face.

After several months working in the mortuary, she had grown accustomed to the sight of bare bodies of men, women and children alike. But not once in her life would she have thought to see the day where this peculiar man would present himself before the crowd to take part of such a hazardous spectacle.

“Are you sure about this, Holmes?” asked his companion whom she could only assume to be his biographer and companion friend, John Watson.

“Most certainly,” said the detective as he handed over the last article of his upper garments.

The crowd roared fervently as the man stepped into the inner circle of the ring, taking his stance as the victor held his. Molly on the other hand nervously racked her in her thoughts of the possibility of being seen by this man. At the same time, a morbid curiosity drew her to stay a little longer as she wondered just how good he was against his opponent who won three streaks in one night and the last boxing match in the last fortnight.

As soon as the mediator gave the signal to begin, the crowd cheered as the victor began to swing his fists towards Holmes; only to have him dodge every fist. Fear began to settle into her nerves as the man managed to throw a hit at the consulting detective. Although throughout the times she’s ever visited these boxing sessions, she’s never fully invested herself into the event as she paid close attention to the spectators rather than the spectacle. And so, the match that was laid out on display became the first she has ever been invested into.

With the swig of a fist, Holmes sent the man swaying after receiving a blow. His opponent then held his stance and spat on the ground, raising his fists up once more as he tried to raise his defences. Within a matter of minutes, it was already apparent of who held the upper hand. Molly grabbed hold of a fistful of hay that she was sitting on top of, her heart beating rapidly at the heat of the moment. The gamblers screamed for their champion to win as others threw their fists in the air at Holmes’s impending victory.

With one final blow, the former victor was down for the count; with Holmes standing upright as he appeared to have little to no injury. The crowd roared out both victorious and defeat, as it appeared that the match had the crowds divided into two.

Molly dropped her jaw at the end result, overwhelmed as she was in awe of his surprisingly talented skills. His muscles flexed as his shoulders heaved. Watson approached him as he seemingly began to chide at his friend. The calm detective turned to the good doctor and spoke inaudibly from where Molly was standing.

As Holmes wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, their eyes met within that instant. Molly froze as they locked eyes for a couple of seconds, her fears were realized that he had not only seen her but appeared to have recognized her.

She turned her eyes away, hoping that it was just a coincidence. Except that it wasn’t. His eyes remained fixed on her. She began scuttling her way down, telling herself not to panic as she tried to calm her nerves. By the time she made her way down the stack, she took advantage of her short height and merged her presence within the crowd of spectators.

“We have our victor for this match!” the mediator yelled across the space. “Let’s all call it a night!”

The buzzing crowd booed and groaned, a few men then began to usher the crowd out of the warehouse. With Molly following the crowd as they made their exit, she prayed to God that the man in question wouldn’t pounce on her for any inquiries.

As soon as the crowds dispersed into different directions, she stiffly made her way towards some narrow street as discrete as possible. But it seems that the lord above had other plans in mind.

“Hooper,” a low rumble of his voice put her to a halt.

Without looking back, she gruffly answered;

“Holmes.”

She spun her head around, seeing Holmes standing a few feet away, adjusting his coat buttons in place.

“Fancy to see you here in this time of the evening,” said the detective as he slipped his gloves on. “Judging by the way you presented yourself during the match, you must be a regular in these events.”

“My business is none of your concern,” she spat. “I won’t inquire your reasons why you’re here, so please do me the honour of returning this small favour.”

Doctor Watson, who had just exited the building walked up to Holmes without noticing Molly’s presence.

“Holmes,” said Watson. “For the record, do go easy on the poor chap. He’s broken at least two bones from that last-”

Watson ceased his words as he followed his friend’s gaze towards her direction.

“Mister Hooper,” Watson nodded in greeting. “My apologies, am I interrupting-?”

“No, Doctor Watson,” she grunted. “I was just about to leave until our esteemed detective decided to delay me of my trip to the morgue.”

She then eyed the doctor’s hands and with a quick thought, she then added;

“I suppose that our former victor had taken quite the beating into a state of a long-term injury, I take it?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” said Watson. “But his injuries won’t take him too long to recover. I’d say a good eight to ten months till he’s able to start moving again.”

“I must say, however,” Watson then took a step forward and looked at her in the eye. “I never took you as the sort to find it entertaining to see two men beating each other to a pulp.”

Molly held her guard up at his words, aware of the fact that Watson was aware of her true identity. He is, after all, the very doctor who made that house call regarding her father’s well-being before his passing. Therefore he had already seen her true face.

“I would say the same to Mr Holmes,” she pointed at the detective in an attempt to change the subject. “I never took him for a fighter, much less of a boxer, might I add.”

“The world is full of surprises,” Holmes remarked. “Although I am not the kind to care much about the businesses of others, I must agree with Watson that meeting you here was indeed something to behold.”

She gave out a huff of a sigh.

“What are you doing here, Holmes? Is it another one of your little adventures?” she asked.

“Oh, I assure you, Hooper, that indeed it is,” he smirked as he spoke. “But now that you asked your questions, isn’t it fitting that you should so allow me to ask my own?”

 _Drat,_ she hissed at the realization. _He’s played me again into his hands._

“Make this quick, I do not have all night,” she answered.

“Splendid,” he said with clear satisfaction. “But before I make my inquiry, allow me to the honour of deducing you.”

She rolled her eyes, knowing that he’s doing this on purpose to delay her.

“Judging by this hour of the night, you have already performed your mortuary duties, so therefore you must have had every intention of retiring for the rest of the night. You were only using your mortuary duties as an excuse to avoid my presence. In actual truth, you disdain the very idea of seeing two men at each other’s necks, just as you frown upon men who encourage such acts as a means of earning a profit. But despite how much you hate such a sport, you come back here on a weekly or fortnightly basis. You don’t come here for the matches, but rather you’re here to seek for answers; answers that you have sought for since the day you chose your profession as a man of the morgue.”

“Now,” he brought his fist down to the palm of his other hand. “As for my question: just who is the man in charge of running these events?”

She blinked at his words, dumbfounded at how his question was unrelated to his earlier deduction.

“I’m sorry?” she asked.

“You heard me, what do you know of the man in charge of these events?” he asked again.

She cleared her throat and answered gruffly;

“You can’t have just deduced my reasoning for coming here and not think of the possibility that I know nothing about the man in charge of these abhorrent events?”

“Of course I do,” he said. “I am also well aware of the possibility that you must have been well acquainted with one or two of the regulars after the numerous succession of your visits.”

“Mansworth and Andrews are just people who offered me an entry to these events. I highly doubt that either one of them is the one responsible for sponsoring these matches.”

“Hmm,” he eyed her dubiously. “And just who exactly are they to you?”

“Well, I knew Andrews through Mansworth and Mansworth was an acquaintance of my bro-” -she stopped herself before she spilled the beans and angrily glared at him- “wait, hang on, that is none of your business!”

“Indeed,” the detective nodded, seemingly satisfied with what he got out of her. “Thank you, Hooper, for your cooperation. I will see you after I find the _real_ late Andrews’s body and have it sent to the morgue.”

“W-wait, what?” She stuttered her words as he spoke so carelessly about his intentions.

“Good Evening,” said Holmes as he began making his exit.

As the detective was a good few feet away, Watson stayed behind a little longer.

“Alright,” Molly said to the good doctor. “What is it? If you speak one word of it to him I swear I-”

“No, no, I will do nothing of the sort,” he shook his head. “However, I take it that you’re taking matters into your own hands, are you not?”

She dipped her head, staring at the cobblestones gravely. Molly knew it was a risk she was willing to take. Well aware that the prospects of pursuing the double life that she led will come back to her like a thief in the night.

“I can’t back down from this now,” she muttered. “There’s no turning back. Not when there’s no one left for me in my life.”

She looked up and her eyes met the Doctor’s pitying eyes.

“I don’t want your pity,” she snapped. “Nor your understanding. Nor your charity.”

“Well to be fair, _Mister_ Hooper,” Watson finally said. “I have seen many deaths just as I have taken lives in the Afghan front, and I believe it is in my position to say to you that people such as yourself are entitled to live a happier, merrier and more fulfilling life than I do.”

“Good Evening, _Mister_ Hooper,” he said, emphasizing the male honorific title of her disguise.

With those words, Watson topped his hat as he turned to make his exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time I found out that Doyle wrote Sherlock to be a 'talented' fighter of his weight in boxing, well, the idea was planted in my mind to serve it as a good entrance. haha.


	3. A Midnight visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To spare me the time and trouble from retyping the words, here's what I said on my tumblr to those who don't have access to my post:
> 
> So, by now uni life has taken an iron grip on my time, but I do try and keep up on writing this fic as much as I could. I would like to thank all of you who took the time to read my work and give me kudos as well as a big shout out to the 10 subscribers who are following this fic. Thank you so much because it gives me enough reason to keep this story going as well as the fact I’ve never had that many subs on all of my other works, which probably tells me that I’m doing a good job in this I suppose :) So far the situation is that I am definitely going to be very busy this year, but I am trying to be more organized in order to make a time slot to writing this fic for you sub readers.
> 
> Also, the Irene Adler I wrote in this fic is the Irene Adler based on the novel rather than the BBC version, so if it feels a bit too OOC, it’s because its not Dominatrix that we had all come to love. But rather the Irene Adler who married a lawyer at the end of the short story and disguised herself as a man to outwit Sherlock Holmes to make her escape.

The ride home was a long one, as her view of the city passed her by, her thoughts returned to Doctor Watson’s troubling words. At the very least, she had trusted that he would keep his word of not telling a soul about their previous encounters. However, worrying about the man was the least of her concern compared to her fears of being seen by none other than the sharp-witted Holmes. As the carriage rumbled at the unevenness of the cobblestone ground, she knew it wouldn’t be safe to return to that warehouse and vowed to herself to never return for at least a good three months at best.

As soon as the cabby announced their arrival at her destination, she paid the man as she set herself out of the carriage. Molly tucked her brother’s hat deeper onto her head, concealing her face with the aid of the shadows as she entered into the premise of her own home discretely. She took advantage of the fact that her maid won’t be there that evening and closed the door shut loudly.

“If your maid were to see your arrival at this hour, I am more than certain she would have fainted by now.”

Molly jolted as she gasped at the voice of a woman coming from the end of the hallway.

“Who’s there?” she asked, reaching for the closest lamp.

“There’s no need,” said the owner of the voice, a lamp was then lit up a few paces from where Molly stood. “It’s all taken care of.”

Molly focused on the silhouette who stood adjacent to the burning lamp and immediately recognised the figure.

“Miss Adler,” she said in an audible whisper.

“It’s Norton, now,” said Miss Adler, nodding to her in greeting. “And please, for the last time, do call me Irene. For old time’s sake.”

Molly sighed in relief, giving out a half-chuckle as an afterthought to her long-time friend’s remarks.

“I thought you were out of the country, last time I’ve heard of your name,” said Molly as she grabbed hold of the lamp and guided her to the sitting room. “Said that you were married one day, and then fled England on the next.”

Irene chuckled at her words, sitting down on the settee. “Is that what you’ve heard?”

“Well, according to Doctor Watson’s stories, yes.”

“Molly dear, since when have you been so interested in such gossip?”

Molly shook her head, smiling as she did. Molly knew Irene Norton, _née_ Adler through her brother at some point, as her brother was one of the many suitors who hoped to pursue the former opera singer. How they met was disastrous as Manuel used Molly’s identity as a means of going close to the American, only to have failed miserably in his attempt.

“Speaking of which,” Irene added. “As your friend and confidant, I can assure you that not all of what was said is true. To be precise, I am more than certain that the writer had to embellish a few truths for the sake of another’s secrecy. But anyway, enough about me; what about you? The last I’ve heard your name, you’ve been running around delivering babes from households across the city.”

“You exaggerate my line of work,” Molly brushed the compliment aside.

“And here you are, dressed like your brother and coming home in these ungodly hours,” Irene added. “Although I can relate to the freedom of donning a male’s costume, but seeing you in this state at this hour; one can’t help but ask why.”

“Oh Irene,” Molly said sadly, lowering her head. “So much has happened while you were away.”

“I’ve heard,” her friend nodded. “My condolences to the passing of your father and brother.”

Molly made a half-chuckle and stood up as she offered a drink to which her friend had politely declined.

“But, really Molly,” Irene urged her. “Pray tell, what happened while I was away?”

With a slight hesitation, Molly told Irene of the events that passed as well as her current situation. Her friend, in turn, listened intently, nodding as she did so. By the time Molly finished her tale, Irene then finally spoke;

“So that’s what it is that you were doing. From the moment I saw you enter, I could have sworn that you looked as though your brother’s ghost had possessed you.”

“That’s hardly the case, Irene,” Molly laughed at the thought. “But I made it clear to have Roberta, my maid, sent home on this particular day of the week. That way, my current attire won’t rouse suspicion on anyone’s behalf.”

“Tut, tut,” Irene shook her head wryly. “Giving her one day off from her usual duties will only further rouse suspicion.”

“Avoiding suspicion is only one-half of the reason for excusing her. After father and Manuel passed away, it is difficult to pay her well with the state of my wages, therefore it is only fitting that I am to have her for one day less in a week.”

“I see,” she nodded. “When you put it that way, it does seem like a sound excuse. However, I will say this as a word of caution. I may not be so familiar within the matters of the medical field, but I am inclined to tell you that what you are doing will become your undoing if you are to keep pushing yourself like this. A midwife by day, on mortuary duty by night; the way you’re handling this is hazardous to your health.”

“I am aware.”

“And despite your knowledge, you wish to pursue this matter?”

Molly nodded.

Then a thought came to mind, bringing her to ask;

“Irene, how long have you been standing here? Rather, how on earth did you manage to infiltrate the sanctuary of my own home?”

Irene laughed at her boisterously, without a care of the possibility of waking the neighbours.

“Let’s just say that your dear housemate showed me a way in. I’ve been waiting here for a good hour or so.”

“Housemate?”

A loud mew then followed within that instant, bringing Molly to look down and spotted the feline that was currently residing in the house. She then looked to Irene who then head-pointed at the creature that began to curl itself around the hem of Molly’s trousers.

“This little one showed you the way in?” Molly pointed at the feline.

Her friend responded with a wide grin.

Molly shot a glare of disbelief towards the cat.

“Oh don’t be like that, Molly,” said Irene. “Your brother had always been fond of Tobias.”

“T-Tobias?”

Molly pointed her gaze towards the cat and then switched her focus to her friend.

“Is that his name?” she asked. “How did you-?”

“It is a very long story,” Irene interjected. “And I won’t waste any more of your sleeping hours by telling you how I came to know of little Tobias here.”

With that said, she stood up, bringing Molly to stand as well as she asked;

“You’re leaving so soon after we have just met?”

“Well, if I had known what you’ve been up to all these past few months, I would have joined you in your little mischief.”

“Forgive me,” Molly bowed her head. “If I had known you wanted to make a house call I would have stopped everything just to talk to you a little more.”

“Then the feelings are mutual then. As much as I wished to drop a line to let you know of my visit, after what happened prior to my marriage I could no longer take that risk. So all is forgiven for the circumstances cannot be helped.”

Irene then strode her way out of the sitting room, with Molly holding the lamp light to show her through the door. However, instead of turning towards the door, Irene changed directions and led herself up the stairs.

“Irene,” Molly pointed to the door. “The door is this way. Why are you climbing the stairs?”

With a mischievous smirk, she tilted her head towards the stairs.

“Come along Molly,” said Irene. “I’ll show the other entrance that our little friend had shown me.”

Molly then turned her head back to the feline, who now began to climb up the stairs as well.

“How is it all possible that everyone but myself knows just where this _other_ entrance is?” Molly said to herself.

“Stop dilly-dallying and follow me,” Irene insisted.

Molly followed Irene along, passing the lamp to her friend as they turned towards her brother’s private study. The Hooper house wasn’t anything grandiose nor was it too small for a family of four members, so, therefore, it was unheard of for Molly to think that she would overlook the possibility for a secret entrance to her own home.

Upon entering her brother’s study, Irene then turned towards the window and set aside the lamp onto the study table. Irene then unlocked the bolt, opened the glass window and without any hesitation, she bunched up her skirt and begun to climb her way through the window.

“You cannot be serious!” said Molly, flabbergasted at the fact that her friend made her entrance through this very window. “Irene, what if you fell and broke your neck?!”

“Hush now,” Irene said. “You don’t want to wake the neighbours.”

“But you can’t be serious,” Molly hissed in an audible whisper. “Of all things you would do something like this.”

“Oh Molly,” Irene said melodiously. “I assure you that there’s more to it than what meets the eye.”

She then tilted her head, gesturing her to follow her.

“No,” Molly widened her eyes and shook her head in disbelief. “How is that all possible? I’ve lived in this how for all my life, how is there more to this-”

“Follow me, and I will show you,” Irene assured her.

As soon as Irene was through the window, Molly reluctantly followed her; fearing the worst to come as her mind was clouded with thoughts of admonishment and numerous denials. As soon as she got herself through the window, she then found herself standing on a platform wide enough for an adult to be able to stand and walk along its length. It appeared as though the platform was installed along the gables on the roof of her house. It almost seemed ridiculous to think that someone was able to hide something like this under her very nose.

Irene walked along the platform, gesturing for Molly to follow through and then signalled her to a halt. Her friend then pointed out towards the chimney.

“Can you see those bars along the masonry?”

Molly nodded as she held a tight grip on the edge of the windowsill.

“You could scale the walls with the help of those bars,” Irene explained. “With those things embedded onto the bricks, it is easy to follow along and sneak your way into your brother’s study.”

“Good Heavens,” Molly gasped. “You’re right! What if a burglar were to realize its existence?”

“I’m more than certain that those things are hidden in plain sight,” her friend remarked. “If it were not for Tobias, however, you would have found me waiting for long hours on your front door.”

“I can’t believe someone would do something like this,” Molly shook her head, unable to digest the very notion of it.

“If there was anyone who would do such a thing, I could only think of one person.”

Molly turned to her friend, realizing whom she was referring to.

“No.,” said Molly.

“Yes.” Said Irene.

“No. I know Manuel may have inherited most of my father’s early days of mischief but he would never-”

“Your brother had gone so far as to attempt to dress like you in hopes of making me his wife,” Irene added. “If he would go to such great lengths, why would doing something like this surprise you?”

With a short pause, Molly forced herself to accept the inevitable.

“You’re right,” she said. “Manuel did have it in him to do something as ridiculous as this.”

Irene smirked at her words.

“I will be leaving London by the afternoon,” she then said.

“Leaving so soon?” asked Molly. “Then how long have you been staying here in this country?”

“I was here for some urgent business. But now that everything’s been settled, I have no reason to remain here any longer than I already have. Besides, I made a promise to my husband that I will return as soon as possible.”

“I see.”

Irene then smiled at her and said; “It is good to see you again, Molly. I pray that you no ill will come to you on your quest.”

“You too, Irene,” Molly then embraced her friend and added. “I take it that you will be taking the train from Charing Cross station?”

“Yes, I am, why do you ask?”

“I wanted to see you off at the very least,” Molly answered. “After all, the last time you left, you never said goodbye. Manuel was devastated when he heard you eloped.”

Irene chuckled and said; “Alright, then. I will meet you at the station by 3:08 and there we will bid our final goodbyes.”

Her friend returned her embrace and then began to scale down the walls with the help of the iron bars. As soon as her feet touched the ground, Irene waved at her and made her way towards the carriage that had been idly standing there on the cobblestones. By the time the cabby left her sight, Molly made her way back to the window and locked it behind her.

Tobias approached her and begun curling himself around her.

“Look at you, trying to butter me up for what you did,” Molly chided mockingly.

She then picked up the feline and raised it to her eye level.

“So your name is Tobias,” she said.

The cat mewed in reply.

“Tobias sounds too formal. I think I’ll call you Toby instead.”

Toby then mewed.

“You don’t like it?”

The feline then made a slow blink.

She chuckled and carried the creature in her arms as she made her way into her room to change into her bedclothes. By the time she settled onto her bed, she thought about her plans for the morning before she fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

By the appointed hour, Molly managed to meet up with her friend moments before she boarded the train. Molly wore a plain, dull-green dress and a poke bonnet over her head whilst Irene wore a blue and white-silked dress, decorated with laces and pearl buttons with a feathered hat to top it off. The buzzing crowds of passengers and wayfarers alike bid their goodbyes loved ones around them, as others climbed on board. The stations master hollered out their schedule and stops as the steam engine hissed out gasses of white smoke and steam.

“So this is it, isn’t it?” Irene lauded. “This may very well be the last time we’ll see each other.”

“I’m afraid that might the case,” Molly agreed. “At very least, it assures me to know that you’re happy with the family that you now have.”

“I have never met such a wonderful man like Godfrey,” she said. “He supports me, loves me and accepts me for who I am, regardless of my past encounters.”

“It sounds like a dream to me,” Molly said absent-mindedly. “To have someone who could provide us with everything that we could hope for. Dare I say it, you are one of the luckiest of women to have him.”

“Indeed.”

The two of them walked along the station, with Irene carrying her bags with Molly right beside her. After a long pause of silence between them, Irene then said;

“You too.”

“Sorry?”

They stopped in their tracks, with Irene turning to face Molly.

“You too, deserve some happiness in your life,” said Irene. “Whether it be a man to stand by your side or to find fulfilment in the profession you chose; you deserve to be happy, Molly.”

“But Irene-”

“Find someone who could be by your side and support you in your cause,” her friend continued. “In this day and age, we women ought to have our say in what we believe in. The last time I saw you, you had such a passionate desire to become one of the first female doctors. And yet, you chose to become a midwife in the end. Why did you give it up? You could have accomplished so many achievements with your skill in the medical field.”

“You know my reasons,” Molly replied. “And I never said I was going to give up my dreams. I think it’s safe to say that I might as well have achieved it.”

“Achieved it? One half of it yes. But not to its fullest potential.”

The station master then began his announcement for the passengers to go on board.

“Well, looks like this is where we must part,” said Irene.

Molly gave her a smile and embraced her once again.

“If I have the opportunity, I will try and write to you,” she said to her friend.

“I’ll do my best on my part as well,” Irene returned her embrace.

When they let go of each other, with a smile, Irene then said;

“Molly, you deserve to be happy. And I will continue to pray for your happiness.”

“Thank you, Irene,” Molly said. “Goodbye, my dear old friend.”

“Goodbye, Molly.”

Irene then boarded onto one of the carriages moments before the station master made his last call before the train departed. Handkerchiefs were waved in the air from both the carriages and the people on the station, hands were raised as they waved goodbye to old friends and loved ones alike. Molly waved one last goodbye to her friend as soon as Irene popped her head out onto one of the windows. The steam engine blew out its whistle, bringing late passengers to hurriedly board the train. Moments later, the train departed the station, leaving the people on the station to turn around to exit the platform.

Molly began to make her exit as well, wiping what little tears she tried not to shed from her friend’s departure. With her head bent down low as she walked along towards the exit of the station, she paid little attention towards her surroundings. Her thoughts were hovering in doubt at the words that both Irene and Doctor Watson had said. All her life, she never truly gave much thought to the very idea of it, because of it truth, the happiest she’s ever been was when her family had still lived.

 _Is happiness defined by what we gain, or what we have achieved?_ She scoffed at the thought as she continued to follow along towards the exit.

Immediately she bumped into a sturdy figure before her which resulted in her to squeak as she fell backwards onto the hard floor.

“I’m sorry miss, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said as she stirred herself out of her thoughts. “The fault lies with me, I wasn’t paying attention.”

A gloved hand was stretched out before her, in which she took it to assist her to stand.

“Then I suppose that the matter lies with both of us then.”

She froze as soon as she recognized that familiar baritone in the man’s voice.

_No._

“Is everything alright, miss?”

_No, it can’t be._

She didn’t want to confirm her suspicions as she held the man’s hand to help her to her feet.

“It's fine. I’m alright,” she quickly said her head bent down low, hoping that the visor of her bonnet would hide her face.

With a quick glance, she looked at the man who stood before her and immediately recognized the pair of sea-green eyes.

There before her eyes, Holmes stood with his hand holding onto hers as he eyed the face of his pocket watch which he held with his other hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Did he find out or not?


	4. The Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I didn't expect myself to end up adding some anime tropes in this. I mean, for real, cross-dressing, main lead in question trying not to get caught, etc, etc. Anyway, enough from me, got to rush. Enjoy the update!

Normally under any circumstances, Molly would make it a point to hold out a gruff exterior to her disposition. After the many nights of observing and surveying the different stances between the two sexes, not to mention trying to imitate her brother to a certain degree by memory, the first instinct she would do was to be on guard in her male disguise.

However, this was not just any normal circumstance on her part, for it was the very first time in her entire life would Sherlock Holmes be standing before her feminine form. Panic ensued as the seemingly unsuspecting consultant was not only holding her hand, but was almost a breadth away from where she stood. Thankfully, his focus was clearly towards his pocket watch in his other hand rather than Molly herself.

“T-Thank you sir,” she said in a low whisper, releasing her grip onto his own hand.

Just as she was about slip her hand from his fingers, he immediately tightened his grip on her hand. The very gesture of brought her to hold her breath and bent her head down low, anticipating for the worst case scenario.

“Dear miss,” said Holmes. “Are you hurt?”

His polite mannerism caught her off guard. Never once had she ever seen him in such a courteous manner as far as she was concerned.

“No sir,” she answered, within the back of her mind a dubious thought appeared of the possibility that he might not have seen her face.

_Let’s not get ahead of ourselves._

“Are you sure?”

“Yes sir.”

With the visor of her poke bonnet blocking her view of him, she hoped that the material would veil her face from his full view of her.

“Pardon my rudeness, my dear lady, but it appears as though you seemed rather distraught.”

“It is alright, sir,” she insisted. “Thank you for your concern, but I must be on my way. Good day.”

She stepped aside and tried to be as discrete in hiding her desire to avoid him, only to be pulled back; reminding her that she was not released from his hold.

“Just one moment,” he said as he loosened his fingers around her hand.

 _Don’t you dare,_ she pleaded in her thoughts, shifting her head to the side as far from his view as possible.

“By any chance, do you happen to have seen a fair maiden in blue, wearing a feathered hat?”

“Forgive me good sir,” she quickly answered. “But I cannot help you.”

Molly then took one step forward, in which his response was to slide his hand up to her wrist and wrapped his fingers around it firmly.

“Sir,” she said as calmly as possible. “Please unhand me, I have an urgent business to attend to.”

The seconds that followed seemed to have been going on for longer, as the two of them stood there in place; frozen like a scene from a painting. For every passing second, Molly felt her perspiring underneath his fingers, her heart-rate growing faster as she felt her temperature rise from her fear of having to be exposed. Her situation didn’t help at the fact that she was unable to see his expression to give her a little hint of whether her fears had been realized or not.

He then released her from his grip, clearing his throat as he then said;

“Forgive me. I acted rather rashly. But I am in dire need of help.”

Hearing his words with such sincerity caught her off-guard, bringing her to stiffen in her posture. She tried to resist the urge of raising her head or turning around to face him and asked coldly;

“And what sort of man would be desperate enough to seek help from a woman whom you have just met? Now please, good sir, I must be on my way.”

“You’re acquainted with Miss Irene Adler, are you not?”

With those words, she immediately raised her head and faced him. She was aware that Holmes had encountered Irene Adler once before, thanks to the tales that Watson had published, but never once had it crossed her mind that he would seek out for her.

As soon as her eyes met his, she had already realized her mistake; for his expression changed from desperation to astonishment and recognition.

“Hooper?!” he said.

She had to think, and considered two options; either run as far as possible or remain standing there and wait for the inevitable.

In the height of her desperation as a last resort, she quickly answered;

“H-how do you know my name?”

“You jest,” he immediately answered. “Don’t think for a moment that I wouldn’t recognized you.”

And at that moment, she then remembered one advantage she had.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I do not know you,” she said. “You must be mistaken me for someone else.”

“No,” he insisted. “There is not a face I cannot recall and by no means would I be able to forget those distinct brown eyes, Hooper.”

“Oh!” she said, feigning a sudden realisation. “You must be referring to my brother Manuel, sir.”

He paused at her words, furrowing his brows in clear doubt to her words.

“Your brother,” he said dubiously. “Would you honestly think that I would believe that you are by no means not the same Hooper who is a physician that happens to examines bodies in a morgue at Saint Barts?”

“Yes,” she said firmly in her attempt to sound convincing. “My name is Margaret Hooper and my brother is Manuel Hooper. It is a common mistake for anyone who knew my brother to think of me as him.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. But nevertheless, she understood that had Manuel and her stood side by side, the difference would be too obvious due to the natural difference between the a male and female’s anatomy. But when separated, it was often the case where the two could be mistaken on certain occasions.

As much as she didn’t wish to use her brother as a means of escape, she knew that anything was better than to have Holmes figure out what she was up to.

“How is that even possible?” he said, clearly unconvinced at the very idea of it. “The only times when a sibling shares the same face is when they are born twins with-”

“-My brother and I were a different case, sir,” said Molly, her tone hardened to stand her ground. “We shared the same face but it is most certainly obvious that we do not share the same sex.”

Before he could have his say, she swiftly turned her back to him and began taking wide strides away from the consulting detective. She kept telling herself to stay as calm as possible with every step away, only to have the man once again grab hold of her wrist.

“For God’s sake, woman, stay put for at least a good five minutes,” he said in frustration. “Regardless of whether you really are what you say you are is the least of my concerns at this very moment. Now, I only asked of you whether you are well-acquainted with a certain Irene Adl-I mean Norton.”

Molly huffed in her annoyance and faced him.

“And what if I am?” she said. “Why should that matter?”

“There are certain matters I need to discuss with her,” he answered almost immediately.

“She had already boarded the train and has left the country,” Molly answered. “I’m sorry sir, but you just missed her, so I cannot help you in that regard.”

She’d expected him to appear crest-fallen or somewhat upset with the news, only to have him then say in the most nonchalant manner;

“Well, that’s a shame now isn’t it?”

Molly felt taken aback by the sudden change in character.

“I’m sorry?” she said, furrowing a brow in her confusion.

“Well, now that the opportunity had slipped through my fingers, I suppose there’s no point in dwelling on the subject matter now.”

Holmes then looked at his watch and tutted.

“Blast,” he said under his breath. “It’s seems like I’m going to have to find another way around.”

He then turned towards her, his sea-green eyes shifting his focus on her from head to toe. The gesture in itself had only made her more or less uncomfortable.

“What?” she asked.

He didn’t respond right away, as he released his hold of her and began to circle around her, observing her figure.

“Wh-why are you doing that?” she said nervously.

“Interesting,” he finally said. “You said you have a brother?”

“Y-yes?”

“And your brother’s name is Manuel.”

“Yes.”

He then stood in front of her and looked at her in the eye.

“Then I assume that you and your brother are living under the same roof?” he asked.

“…Yes.”

He then smirked, making her all the more nervous. For the first time in her entire life she had never felt so vulnerable and naked before anyone, for the times when she wore her brother’s clothes, she wore them like armour against all possible threats she could imagine.

“Tell me then, Miss-?”

“It’s Margaret,” she said, the very sound of her full name felt foreign to her tongue. “Margaret Hooper.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“A-although, friends and family call me Molly,” she quickly added.

Holmes then gave a satisfied nod in her answer and then said;

“Right then, Molly Hooper. Are you well aware of your brother’s late-night activities?”

She dreaded the question, realizing that one wrong move and she’d end up giving herself away.

“My brother works at a morgue, just as you said,” she answered. “It comes to no surprise that he’d come home so late in the evening, given that examining bodies is, after all, a tedious task. What he does is his business.”

“Then are you aware that he’s taken quite an interest in being part of a display of boxing matches?”

Somehow she had the feeling he was going to get to that topic.

“I’ve only just recently known it, a few months back.”

It wasn’t a lie, for she had just discovered it when she met Mansworth and Andrews two months after her father’s funeral.

“Hmm,” Holmes narrowed his eyes as his gaze bore through her own. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“It’s a very interesting case you have here, Molly Hooper,” he began. “You were not lying to me when you said you are not Manuel Hooper and that Manuel Hooper is your other half, rather of your own kin. However, you don’t sound so certain about yourself when you answered my questions regarding your brother’s late-night activities.”

“Of course I am uncertain,” said Molly. “Even family members have their own concessions to keep to themselves if they know that it may only bring conflict to the table.”

“And yet despite what you say, you seemed to be very familiar with your brother’s line of work.”

“Is that how it looks like in your angle?”

“To any person who does not observe, they would overlook the little details when they are having a conversation with another,” he explained. “Although you may say that you are unfamiliar with the things that your brother have been up to, you dropped a bit too much information of how tedious his job must have been.”

He then leaned in closer towards her and said in a low voice;

“And last but not least, since the beginning of our conversation, not once have you ever cared or seem to care to ask for my name.”

Molly took a step back, her mouth wide open in shock and her eyes widened after he pointed out her mistake.

He deviously smiled and straightened his posture before her, topping his hat as he said;

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, but I am more than certain that you already know who I am. If you have a case for me that you can’t solve, you could always drop by my office.”

Holmes then took her by the hand and raised it to his lips for him to lightly kiss on her knuckles.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, _Molly_ Hooper.”

* * *

 

 _That nerve of his,_ Molly grumbled as she began to pin her hair up. _There’s no doubt that he’ll come by this evening in the mortuary._

The sun had begun to set, signalling her to start her preparations for her full make-over as Manuel Hooper. As soon as she pinned her hair up as flat as she could possibly go to avoid having it stick out underneath the wig; she then removed all her clothes and loosened the threads of her corset. As soon as she was released from its bindings, she then slipped on a loose shirt and began to wrap around her bindings around her chest tightly. From there, she slipped on her brother’s clothes then sat onto her dresser to begin applying the remaining pieces of her disguise.

Throughout her sunset ritual before she set out to the mortuary, her mind was focused elsewhere to her latest exchange between her and Holmes.

 _And to think that we had just met the night before,_ she thought. She didn’t want to go tonight, but she had already made apparent that she would be there in the morgue almost throughout the entire week. To have her decide to not appear in such a short notice would not only make her look incompetent, it would have given her late brother a terrible name on how incompetent he is.

_“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Molly Hooper.”_

The very gesture of his lips touching her knuckles brought out a blush of anger and embarrassment, just as it felt foreign to her taste as far as she could remember. Not only had there never been a man who had done such a thing to her, she felt it in her heart that his entire presence could be trouble in the oncoming days.

A knock on her door snapped her out of her thoughts.

“What is it, Roberta?” Molly asked.

“Ma’am, I have come to say good night for the rest of the evening,” said Roberta, her maid.

“Ah, yes,” said Molly, removing her wig and moustache off then wrapped herself with her dressing gown to hide her clothes. She then strode towards her door and opened it to see her. “Have I paid you for your services this week, Roberta?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Roberta replied.

“That’s good to know,” Molly smiled. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.”

“It is a pleasure, Ma’am, to be at your service. Your father and brother have been very generous to me throughout the ages. So I am doing as best as I can to repay for their kindness.”

“I’m sorry I cannot pay you as much as they did for your services. Take care, Roberta, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

As soon as Roberta left the house, Molly rushed to her bedroom dresser and began re-applying her disguises before the mirror. By the time she had finished everything she had to do, she was about to make her way down the stairs, only to have her stop halfway. She made a half-turn towards the direction of her brother’s study, recalling her conversation with Irene.

She never really knew so much about her brother, despite him being her other half. But the more she thought long and hard about it, the more believable it sounded to think that he would sneak his way out through the window and embedded those iron bars to assist him in his escape.

A part of her was suddenly curious and tempted as soon as she entertained the thought of leaving the premise of her own home through her brother’s study. She shook her head, chiding at herself that it was quite possibly the most reckless thing she’ll do if she were to pursue the thought.

Her rational won over the temptation and made her way through the door, locking it and made her way towards the cobblestoned road. As she strode her way and hailed the closest cabby, the very idea lingered in the back of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried so very hard to get Sherlock to not suspect, but it just felt so wrong to not nitpick our lovely Molly because that wouldn't be very Sherlock of him to make him do what he does... haha.


	5. A red-herring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my conversation with my brother (who is btw my partner in crime when it comes to stories like this) I have finally laid out the foundations with this plot and its just the matter of how to write the plot points scene by scene. Uni is really interfering with this fic (actually its this fic that's interfering with my uni stuff lol) and so the delays are going to be inevitable. Better late than never though, right?  
> In all honesty though, as I write each chapter, I realized that romance isn't my strongest suit and I am a plot heavy writer rather than a romance leaning. Its a bit difficult to have these characters move the way you want them to because of the fear of making them ooc and all.  
> Anyway. Enjoy.

“Isn’t it unusual for you to come here so early at this time of the night?” Anderson asked Molly.

“Better early than late, isn’t it?” Molly replied in her low and gruff voice. She then removed her blazer and slipped on the proper attire for the examination of the bodies. “So what have we got this time?”

“Just a few of them, this time ‘round. Can you believe this? One of them is a magician who tried to prove to his audience that he could catch a bullet.”

Anderson tutted as he spoke of the ironic tragedy. Molly in turn couldn’t help but snort at the very idea of it. As morbid as death was, within this line of work, one can’t help but find some sort of humour to it after working in the mortuary for months.

As soon as she was in her apron, she strode to one of the occupied tables and pulled the sheet away from the lifeless body. The man who lay there was a skinny fellow, almost to a point of skin and bare bones; the tendons on his wrists and the veins protruded on his skin, signifying that this man had a history of relentless labouring in his profession.

 _But he’s not strong enough to be fit for the job, given his state,_ she noted. The discoloration under his eyes affirmed her assumptions regarding the nature of his work, as they were signs of fatigue and sleepless nights. She pitied this man as she continued to observe, with every inch of his body telling his life story through the bruises and scars on his body.

After examining the body, she moved onto the next. A man with a stout stature, a stark contrast to the first, and yet they shared the same pattern of wounds. When she moved onto the third, the same set of wounds were there.

 _Has there been an accident?_ She thought to herself, _or-_

“Anderson, when were these bodies sent here?” she asked.

“Earlier this evening,” he answered.

Her brows furrowed, taking his words into account. She then turned to the other body and raised the arm of the skinny fellow. She took a closer look at the man’s hand and spotted grime and soot caught within the cuticle of the man’s fingers.

 _A labourer, from the factories,_ she concluded.

Molly continued examining the bodies, writing down notes to be sent to Scotland Yard and the printing press obituary, if their families could afford having their names on the papers. Already, she could perceive what kind of obituary the unfortunate magician would have for tomorrow’s papers, as he would be remembered as the man who failed to catch a bullet in mid-air.

As the hours passed, it came to her attention that Holmes never managed to show his face in the morgue, much to her own relief. The very last thing she wanted to see is him in the morgue, making some blatant remarks that could reveal her identity before her fellow examiners. She dreaded the very thought of it, but was determined to face whatever may come if someone was to unveil her true face.

After examining the last body, she left the room, discarded her apron, washed her hands and strode her way towards her desk. She settled onto her seat and began writing down her notes that she had written. If there was anything that the public would often overlook in their perception towards people in the morgue was the amount of paperwork the lot of them have to fill. With her quill in hand, she dipped it into the bottle of ink, scribbling down her notes word for word whilst adding a few of her own thoughts onto the pages. A few minutes in writing, she lost the sense of her surroundings getting lost within the labyrinth of words she had written for every page.

“I met your _sister_ today.”

The boom of that familiar baritone voice brought Molly to inhale sharply, snapping her out of her concentration. She looked up and saw Holmes standing in front of her desk and glared at him angrily.

“Don’t look like that,” said Holmes.

“What do you want?” she said in her _‘Manuel’_ tone. “If you’re here to patronize me, I-”

“Who would have known you had a twin sister,” he remarked. “Looking at you now, the two of you really do share the same face. Almost as if the two of you were _one_ person.”

She pressed her lips together into a thin line, eyeing him dubiously at his words.

_Does he know? Is he trying to bait me into admitting that I am not my brother? Or-_

“And what of it?” she barked. “So what if I have a sibling who shares the same face as I? That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Molly felt that it was a safer option for her to follow along his words.

“No, no, no,” he said. “I never said it was. It’s just that, I find it difficult to believe it.”

She huffed and turned her attention back to her work.

“You are free to think whatever is that you believe in,” she said, taking the quill in her hand and dipping it into the ink bottle to resume her work. “But mark my words, if you do so much as to use _her_ to interfere with my work, I swear I will make it a point to remove you from these premises right this instant.”

“What was the purpose of you going into that warehouse last night?”

“I thought I told you that my business is my own-”

“-I really find it hard to believe that after all that time in your life, you never knew what your sibling was up to-”

“-Holmes, one more word, I will call for Stamford to remove you out of my office.”

Holmes then fell silent and took one of the sheets that were drying on her desk. Molly then closed her eyes and sighed in her annoyance. When she looked up to the man before her, she saw his eyes following along the lines that she had written.

She focused back to her work and resumed writing her unfinished sentence, only to find that she couldn’t concentrate with his tall figure within her peripheral vision. She finished the last word of her sentence and rested her quill onto the ink bottle.

“What do you want?” she said sternly. “It’s obvious that you want something from me.”

“Mm,” he nodded, his eyes still focused on the page in hand. “I don’t expect anything less from someone of your calibre. Not a single detail overlooked.”

“Answer the question, Holmes, petty flattery won’t get you anywhere,” she said. “Your loitering in my office is interfering with my work.”

He placed the paper back to her desk, his eyes staring back at her without a hint of his own emotions. For a moment, Molly felt his eyes staring straight through her façade.

“I need to see the body of Martin Andrews,” he answered, pointing at one of the papers that were still drying on her desk. “ _The_ real Martin Andrews, just as I said I would last night. And I am going to need to have a word with you regarding your visits to that warehouse, unless you would rather talk to the police about it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. But I am inclined to inform you that the warehouse will no longer hold any of those matches from here on. The police had arrested the owner of the company and so therefore, anyone who is affiliated with those late-night boxing sessions will be interrogated by Scotland Yard.”

Molly gaped at Holmes; she had no ill-judgement towards the very idea of co-operating with the police. However, given the circumstances, that was last thing she’s ever had in mind.

She pushed her chair back to give her some room to stand, arranging the ink-dried papers into a small stack. Without a word, Molly gestured for Holmes to follow her into the mortuary only to stop half-way through the dim, gas-lit halls.

Without turning around to face him, she said; “I take it that you have questions.”

The man behind her made no response.

“Questions regarding me and … my sibling.” Molly then turned around and faced him. “Whatever it is that you wished to ask about her, do me a favour and pretend that _she_ doesn’t exist. Not within these walls, not within the spaces where I work. Do me that, and I will comply with all your requests, if need be.”

“That is a tempting offer, Hooper,” he finally said, within the poorly-lit halls, Molly could vaguely distinguish his eyes fixed onto her. “But I’m afraid that there will come a point where these questions will have to be answered.”

“And what would you gain by obtaining your answers?”

He smirked in his silent reply. Molly’s frown deepened and turned her back to him.

“You really are insufferable,” she said.

“It is my pleasure,” she heard a hint of his smile in his words.

When the two of them entered the mortuary, Molly caught sight of Anderson packing away his tools, the saw in hand raised halfway into the kit.

“And who said you are free to abandon your mortuary duties this early?” asked Molly.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I have received a telegram,” Anderson said stiffly. “They said its urgent business.”

“And what is the nature of this ‘ _urgent’_ business?”

“It is my wife, sir,” he answered. “She has some… matters that needs to be discussed.”

Molly gave him a long stare as she tried to decide whether or not she should let him go. Knowing Anderson, chances are he must have been found out of his adulterous affair with a certain unnamed mistress. The question as to how she knew was something that she had heard once or twice from passing colleagues.

Normally, under such circumstances, she would tell him that it is a sorry excuse to leave his duties; but she had no drive to bother with his affairs.

“You may leave,” she said firmly. “However, I’d expect you to have written down your reports the next time we meet. Are we clear?”

“…Thank you sir.”

With those words, he left the scene carrying his medical bag along with it. As they passed by each other, she could have sworn that he appeared relieved as he walked out the door. By the time Anderson disappeared from their view, Molly huffed in her annoyance.

“You do realize that Anderson has been using his wife as an excuse to see his secret lover, did you not?” Holmes said almost too carelessly.

She rolled her eyes; “Is that how it looks like to you?”

“His wedding ring was not present while he was packing his tools away.”

She pursed her lips grimly, cursing to herself of her mistake of letting Anderson go in the middle of his duties. They were understaffed as it is, the last thing she wanted was to have one more hand short.

“Nevertheless,” she huffed, as she walked towards the row of dead bodies. “Why don’t we get this over and done with? The sooner we get this done, the better.”

She walked over to one of the bodies that had the name “Martin Andrews” written on its plaque, pulling back the sheet to reveal the man’s face. Anderson was the one who was in charge of this man’s autopsy, therefore, it was first time she had seen the real Andrews who was lay there before them.

“Based on your expression, I take it that this was not the same man whom you had met in the warehouse,” Holmes noted.

She shook her head, still unable to fathom the very idea that she had been speaking to an imposter all this time. And then, a foreign thought had occurred to her that Doctor Watson was not present with them when she recollected her thoughts on the night before.

“Why isn’t Doctor Watson with you? Doesn’t he always stand around and observe you on a day-to-day basis?” she asked.

“Watson isn’t always present when I am on a case. He has his wife to attend to, even more so with the fact that his wife is with child currently.”

She nodded as she took in the information she had received, somewhat relieved to hear that the good doctor had his own happiness within his family.

 _‘-people such as yourself are entitled to live a happier, merrier and more fulfilling life than I do,’_ she recalled his words. She was grateful for his concerns, just as she was grateful for that day when he was there for her father’s funeral.

“Unfortunately for both of us, Anderson was the one in charge of handling this Mr Andrews’s body,” she said, pointing at the areas where the stitching was. “Therefore I cannot provide you with anything useful to my knowledge.”

Wordlessly, Holmes then took out his magnifying glass and already began hovering the lens over the body; giving the lifeless body his full attention. The way his brows scrunched up whenever he pauses, along with the way his lips curved to a frown; Molly couldn’t help but find it oddly attractive to see him like this. But as soon as the thought slipped through her mind, she shook her head and moved a little over to the long end of the table.

“Why do you go to that place, Hooper?” he asked so suddenly that it brought her to jolt a little. “If you aren’t there to see two men brawling to win, then waste your precious hours of sleep to spend it on something that doesn’t interest you? It’s hardly in your character.”

She tightened her two lips together, knowing that whatever lies she would say would easily be detected. Molly didn’t want to state her reason, as she was still uncertain whether Holmes had already figured it out or not that she was the same Hooper he had met earlier in the morning. Although she was thoroughly convinced that it would take a miracle to outwit this man, she was undecided whether she should keep up with the lie or have her spill everything before him.

And then, she recalled the words that her brother had said to her once and answered;

“It is never in anyone’s character to do things that forces them to hide it from the people they are acquainted with. If you are asking me why I was there, I was there to simply observe. But if you are asking me of what I know about that warehouse or the man who was in charge of those events, I only know so little of it.”

“I would rather if you answer my questions more directly than hovering about it with vague answers,” he said mercilessly. “I can see that you were there to observe, but you aren’t stating just what it is that you are observing. And to add to that note, yes, I would like to hear more about what you know about the inner workings of that warehouse. Regardless of how insignificant it may seem to you.”

Suddenly it seemed oddly tempting to answer to Scotland Yard.

“How tedious,” she muttered.

“Your stubbornness led you to this in the very first place.”

Molly clenched her teeth and glared at Holmes who continued to observe the body through his lens. After a while of him observing within the silence, he then raised his head towards her direction.

“Hooper, it would make things a lot easier for both of us if you cooperate,” he said. “I won’t inquire anything related to _your sister,_ and I find that unless your involvement with that warehouse has some connection to _her_ I suggest that you should answer me truthfully.”

His piercing gaze brought her to squirm from where she stood, knowing that in many ways than one, he has the right just as she felt that he could have done numerous other ways of approaching the subject matter.

“All I know is that Mansworth came forward to me one day,” she finally answered with bitter reluctance. “He told me that it’s been an age since he last saw me and dragged me into that place for old times’ sake. It was there I met the man who calls himself Martin Andrews, he said he got us a spot for the event which takes place every fortnight.”

“And this ‘Mansworth’ recognized you?”

“…yes.”

His eyes narrowed slightly at her response.

“What is it now?” she said dubiously.

“No, nothing at all,” he said, packing his lens away. “Just one other thing; how would you describe the imposter who poses himself as Andrews?”

“A head taller than I,” she pulled the sheet back to cover the body once more. “A smiling fellow with a grizzled beard. He also had brown eyes and a small mouth. His hair however had a grey streaks despite having such a youthful complexion.”

“And this particular Andrews was the one who gave you and Mansworth access to those events?”

“Yes.”

He nodded in clear satisfaction, one corner of his mouth curled as he said;

“Well, that wasn’t so difficult now is it?”

Molly soured at his words and tucked her hands into her pockets.

“Are there any more questions before I am able to get back to my desk?” she asked.

“Does the name Professor James Moriarty sound familiar to you?”

Molly raised her head up and blinked.

She remembered her brother praising his name for his brilliance in his work whilst he was still studying in London University. He was well-described as a genius, a protégé of mathematics. What she could recall at most was how much her brother made mention how it was a pity that the Professor didn’t remain for too long within the classroom setting.

“Professor James Moriarty? Well, he was M-” –Molly cleared her throat before she could say her brother’s name- “I was one of the few under his tutelage when he was still teaching in London University. One of the most brilliant of minds, they say. It is a shame that he decided to make his resignation so soon after his written work on the binomial theorem.”

Holmes quirked his brow upon her answer, his expression then darkened as his lips fell to a solemn frown. Based on his darkened eyes, Molly knew that it was a sign that something did not bode well for either of them.

“Your- professor, you say?” he said almost too grimly.

“Why?” she asked. “What does he have to do with anything?”

There was a stifling period of silence that followed; Holmes had his gaze fixed on her briefly which brought Molly to shift uncomfortably in her stance. She wasn’t a fool to realize that some plot was afoot and Holmes had formed a link to it.

“Holmes?”

He raised his head a little and blinked.

“Holmes?” Molly asked once more. “What does Professor Moriarty have to do with the imposter in the warehouse?”

He inhaled sharply and answered;

“Well, I think I’ve held you from your work for too long. Good work, Hooper. Good night.”

He clicked his heels together and turned his back towards her, making his way towards the door.

“Wait a minute Holmes, you didn’t answer my question!”

“Another time, perhaps,” he said without facing her.

“Holmes!”

Without so much of a flinch towards her direction, the consulting detective left the scene, leaving Molly to grit her teeth at the very idea of his behaviour.

“Damn that man,” she cursed under her breath.

She looked to the real Andrews who laid there underneath the thin sheet.

So far, she had more questions than answers. The fact that she had no leads to follow regarding her brother’s affairs alongside with the lack of knowledge surrounding his death had only brought her to feel like a fool on a fool’s errand.

She bit her lip and pulled back the sheet as she tried to see what Holmes had seen underneath his magnifying lens.

 _40 to 45 years old,_ she noted. A working man, judging by the muscles on his biceps. Has a history of violence for about as early as his late adolescence. A fighter, no doubt at some point in his life as she recalled the same injuries she found on other boxers in the aftermath. She then lifted his arm and then spotted a familiar pattern of bruises.

Her eyes widened.

 _It can’t be,_ she thought.

She then turned to the man’s hands and saw the same grime and soot that were within the cuticles of his fingers.

She released the arm from her grip and hastened across the morgue towards the other three bodies.

Pulling the sheet from the each of them, with one glance she saw the same similar injuries etched onto their arms and forearms.

 _All of them worked within the factory,_ she concluded.

She turned to the real Andrews’s hands and saw the same set of callouses she found from the other three men.

Molly lowered her head, and then in that instant, a few pieces had clicked into place. The more she thought about it, all the more the nature of their deaths horrified her. What disgusted her the most was how after all those months, she had overlooked the very nature of it in the very first place.

 _So that was why…_ she realized now as to why Holmes had interrogated her in the very first place.

She discarded her apron and towards the door, hoping to catch up to Holmes. Seeing that he was nowhere in sight, she grunted in frustration and hurriedly ran towards her office. She bundled up everything that she needed into her medical bag and ran towards her other colleague, mentioning briefly that she had to leave early and that she will have to make up for the lost time on the next night.

After she had done everything she needed to do, she rushed out of the premises of the morgue and swiftly turned from side to side, hoping to see the consulting detective’s figure within the side-walks.

Much to her disappointment, she had just missed the man, bringing her to kick at small pebbles on the sidewalk angrily.

“Dammit!” she cursed over and over under her breath, which brought a few wayfarers to turn towards her direction.

She couldn’t care less of how she must have appeared. What mattered to her at the moment was to let the man know of what she had just known based on her own knowledge.

Molly then drew closer to the cobblestoned road and hailed for a cab. When one of them halted for her, she entered into the carriage and then instructed the cabbie;

“221 Baker Street, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BY GOD I AM DONE WITH THIS CHAPTER! Sorry. It's just that this chapter took me soo long to write you cannot even imagine how long it took me to sleep. So, what did Molly figure out? hehe.  
> Also. Shout out to all you 26 subscribers to this fic. I wouldn't have done this without you. Thank guys so much for the subs, bookmarks and kudos because never in my life have I ever received this amount within the span of days I post so often. I love you guys!


	6. The informant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the part where it deserves its M rating.
> 
> Disclaimer: character death and graphic depiction of character death.
> 
> I have no excuse.
> 
> You have been warned.

As she drove through the cobblestone road, her thoughts flooded her mind as she continued to process the very nature of the case:

Since the very beginning, she had always thought that the boxing matches were indeed, brutal by nature. As for someone much like herself, who never saw a real boxing match prior to these fortnightly sessions, would never have known that these matches were not normal from the very beginning.

The result of every match often sent the losing contender sprawling to the ground, howling in pain with severe injuries that no woman nor child should ever see. Echoes of bones being broken by the winning man had often brought a shudder to her even in her recollection. It was a barbaric sight, indeed.

The spectators, rather than being horrified at the display, were cheering for their winning man. In many ways than one, Molly was disgusted by their enthusiastic screams. However, knowing that she had turned a blind eye towards the situation made her no different from these men.

“Baker Street!”

She jolted at the announcement, snapping her out of her thoughts. Molly then wordlessly paid the man and got off the carriage, her thoughts then returned to the burden of guilt that weighed heavily in her mind.

She scrunched up her nose and furrowed her brows in self-loathing. She knew that if there was anyone whom she should be talking to about it, it should be the detectives in Scotland Yard. Instead, much to her own surprise, she chose to inform the consulting detective rather than the police.

 _Why him?_ She asked herself. Was it because of the fact that he had seen her true face? Molly decided that the answer shouldn’t matter either way; what mattered was answering to all that is good and just.

She ceased all thoughts that clouded her mind and hastened to the steps of the consulting detective’s premises. From where she stood, the second floor window was lit brightly from the inside; one curtain half-drawn closed as she saw a small fraction of the interior through it. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, calming her nerves as she released her breath.

When she reached the door, she reached for the knocker and then-

“What do you think you’re doing?”

A hand wrapped itself around her small wrist which prevented her from grasping the knocker.

In a moment of recognition of that voice, she swiftly turned to her side.

There stood Mansworth, Thomas Mansworth; grasping her thin wrist with his large hands.

“What does it look like?” she asked him coldly.

“Whatever it is that you’re doing, do not,” he said, his voice held a dark and foreboding tone. “I will not have you enter this house.”

“What right do you have to make those demands?” she pulled her arm away from him, only to have his grip tighten even further. “Unhand me right this very minute.”

“I cannot do that,” he said. “You don’t realize what you’re doing.”

“My mind is clear, Mansworth,” she insisted, struggling to free herself from his grasp. “I demand you to unhand me right this very moment!”

Mansworth instead dragged her away from the entrance and had her lag behind him along the path.

“W-where are you taking me?” she sputtered and kept struggling in his grip.

He made no reply until they reached the corner of the street, leading her into a narrow alley a few paces away. As soon as they entered the alley, he then grabbed hold her collar and pushed her back against the wall.

“Do you want to give yourself away? After everything that _he’_ s done?!” Mansworth hissed in a whisper.

Molly ceased struggling and looked up at the man before her. His eyes held an earnest gaze, steady and filled with genuine concern.

 _No,_ she corrected herself, _fear._

Fear was what was reflected in his eyes.

“What are you talking about?” she asked slowly. “Which _he_ are you referring to?”

Mansworth gritted his teeth, releasing her from his hold. He did not say, but he took a step back and turned to his side whilst raking his fingers through his hair.

“Answer me, Mansworth,” she demanded. “Which man are you referring to?”

He cursed under his breath, gritting his teeth as he began pacing back and forth. He then stopped at his tracks and looked directly at her.

Mansworth then took one step towards her, grasping both her shoulders with his two hands at an arm’s length away from her.

“Stay. Away. From Sherlock Holmes,” he said firmly, his hands shaking in his grip on her shoulders. “I won’t have you risk your life after all that’s happened.”

He then straightened his posture, removed his hands from her and had them hung on his sides.

“I swear, I risked for your life once, Hooper,” he said, pointing at her. “I won’t risk losing another again.”

For every word he spoke, Molly was drawn in by his cryptic words. She knew this was the best opportunity for her to find out just what it was that her brother was doing within the shadows. But she knew that it was going to be a risk of revealing her true identity.

_‘-And did this Mansworth recognize you?’_

_‘…Yes.’_

Upon her recollection of Holmes’s words, she had a moment of doubt. She took one side-way step away from him.

“You knew,” she said warily.

“Knew what?”

“You knew that I was-”

“Don’t,” he raised a hand to gesture for her to stop. “Don’t you dare say it.”

Hearing his words had only served to confirm her suspicions.

“If you knew the entire time, you could have-!”

He clapped his hand onto her mouth, and drove her against the wall.

“Do. Not.” His voice darkened forebodingly.

Her chest heaved as she breathed heavily, the bindings around her chest tightened even further for every breath she took in.

_Why didn’t you tell me that you knew I wasn’t Manuel?_

Her eyes stung as she felt her tears beginning to well-up. She didn’t want to cry, nor did she understand why she was so upset that all that time Mansworth knew and had been treating her as though she was her brother.

Mansworth gave her one long look and in the sight of her glistening eyes, he removed his hand from her. He turned his head away, gritting his teeth, guilt reflected upon his eyes.

“Why?” she said in a whisper. “Why didn’t you… tell me?”

He clicked his tongue in a flinch, refusing to look at her.

“I made a promise,” he said reluctantly, his eyes staring at the ground. “And I intend to keep that promise, even if it meant playing along with your little game.”

“’ _Playing along?’_ ” she couldn’t believe her ears. “You think _this_ is a game? You think that everything I’ve done until now was just me ‘ _playing along’_?!”

“I swear to you, that was never my intention-”

She then grabbed him by the collar and with her other hand, she forced him to face her.

“Everything that I’ve done. For these past eleven months, I’ve sought for answers, Mansworth,” she said angrily. “I took the risk of putting my name on the line; made sacrifices just to know the truth behind his death. The last thing I wanted to hear was to have someone play me for a fool. If you knew I was not _him,_ then you must have known why _he_ ’s no longer here with us.”

Mansworth then removed her hold of him with his hands roughly, his eyes narrowed in clear frustration as he refused to look at her in the eye.

She gaped at him angrily as she waited for an answer.

After a long, stifling silence, he turned his back towards her in a huff.

“-Do what you want,” he said bitterly. “I will not have my hands sullied over this matter.”

“-I want the truth, Mansworth,” she demanded. “And I have every right to know.”

“Sometimes it’s best that some secrets are to be kept to the grave,” he retorted as he cocked his head towards her. “Mark my words, _Margaret_ Hooper; the minute you walk through those doors, you will risk to everything that your brother had done to keep you from them.”

Mansworth then took wide strides away from her, leaving without giving her a chance to ask further questions.

 _No,_ she shook her head. _I will not accept this._

The last thing she’d want is to have her kept in the dark with this matter. When Mansworth entered into the open street, she followed soon after, pursuing the man.

Exiting the alleyway, she then saw him walk towards the open road and hailed for a cab.

“Mansworth!” she called him out, hastening her way towards him.

The man ignored her and drew closer towards the impending cab.

“Mansworth!” she called out once again.

Her eyes then pointed towards the cab that seemed to show no sign of stopping. Mansworth unsuspectingly turned towards her direction briefly, his back turned towards the cab. The driver then cracked his whip to have the four horses sped up before either one of them realized what was happening.

“Look out!” one of the wayfarers cried out as soon as the four legged beasts were steered towards the man’s direction.

Molly then ran toward Mansworth without a second thought. Mansworth took a moment too late to realize at what was happening right before his very eyes.

Within an instant, the beasts rampantly brought him down, trampling him under its hooves as the carriage wheeled over him. Mansworth’s body was hoofed and beaten by the weight of the carriage and its carriers. The hub of one of the wheels fell off at the impact, which brought the wheel loose; resulting into having the carriage, the driver and two of the horses to topple over and crash into one of the gas-lit lampposts.

Shrieks followed at the end result, a few men and women alike approached the scene that took place before Molly’s eyes. She clasped her hands onto her mouth, horrified at what had just taken place.

_No._

She turned to the man in question; his body showing no signs of movement.

_No._

She gave chase as she approached him, denying the inevitable with every step closer towards him.

_Don’t do this. Please don’t do this!_

“Mansworth!” she cried out as soon as she reached the man who laid there on the cobblestoned floor.

Whistles that could only belong to a police officer followed soon after, which brought forth numerous heads to pop out through the windows of every building. Molly quickly knelt before him, instinctively examining his body at the damages he received.

His breath was shallow, blood splayed over his mouth. One mangled arm and a broken leg. Tears flowed from her eyes at the cruel and horrendous sight. She had seen bodies that had gone through a far worse fate that the man before her. And yet, to this man who had been keeping a close eye on her for so long, suddenly the very sight of him had affected her more than what she thought she could bare.

She looked up towards the horrified bystanders.

“You!” she pointed at one of them. “Send for help right this minute! We don’t have a moment to lose.”

Mansworth rigidly turned his head to face her, coughing out as he did.

“Don’t move,” she said, wiping the tears away from the back of her hand. “You… you have to stay still as much as possible, less your injuries would worsen.”

“I-I m-made a p-promise,” he stuttered.

“Please… P-please don’t try to speak,” she begged.

Ignoring her pleas, he continued;

“Y-your brother… made certain… that e-everything he did… was so… to… to… spare his fam…mily… from a ha-harder life…”

“…Mansworth…”

“S-since the very beggin-ning…” he forced his words out. “Since the day… your b-brother spoke of you… I’ve always wanted… to see you… for who you… really are…”

She hiccuped as the tears flowed down her cheeks.

“Don’t speak like this is your last,” she begged. “Please, Mansworth, don’t do this…”

She turned to her side, only to suddenly remember that she had left her medical bag in the carriage she was on much earlier. She cursed under her breath, realizing that it held everything that she needed in situations like these.

“Is there anyone who could spare a coin?!” she called out. “This man is in pain and needs morphine and antiseptics right this minute!”

The onlookers looked at her with pity whilst others were hovering over to where the driver was. An overbearing crowd gathered around the scene, whispers and horrified voices filled the air. It was only then did she realize she had been speaking in her normal voice. But even with that, she couldn’t care less of it at that moment.

A scuffled then followed as the crowd slowly divided itself. Two men then emerged out of the crowd; one of them being Doctor Watson and the other, the consulting detective himself, Sherlock Holmes.

She turned back to the man who laid before her, his eyes remained fixed on her. Molly then looked up at Doctor Watson and Holmes. Watson then wordlessly bent down next to her, his eyes hovering over his severe injuries.

“He won’t last long,” the doctor finally said after observing his state.

Molly refused to listen and reached for Mansworth’s body, only to have Holmes grasp it before she could touch him.

“Watson’s right,” said Holmes coldly. “Give it up, you’ll only contaminate the evidence.”

“You can’t be serious,” her eyes widened with disbelief. “This man is dying right this very moment and all you have to say is something so-!”

“Watson, get her out of here right this minute,” ordered Holmes.

“-wait Holmes,” Doctor Watson eyed the detective. “Did you just say-”

“Watson, now!”

“…Right,” Doctor Watson nodded as he stood up, offering a hand to Molly to help her up.

“No,” she insisted. “I refuse to accept this!”

“Don’t be stubborn, Hooper and please cooperate,” said Holmes.

“But-!”

“Come along, Mis…” –Watson cleared his throat- “Miss Hooper. There’s nothing left we can do as of this point.”

In bitter reluctance, she picked herself up, taking Watson’s hand to assist her. As soon as she was on her feet, she couldn’t bring herself to tear her gaze away from the sight of the dying Mansworth.

“Have Mrs Hudson look after her,” said Holmes. “It’d be best if she were to be looked after from all the ruckus earlier.”

“Of course,” said Doctor Watson, releasing her hand as he gestured to have her follow along towards the detective’s home.

* * *

 

As soon as Hooper and Watson was out of his sight, Sherlock immediately bent down before the man who laid there.

“You don’t have much time left,” he said in reverence towards the dying man. “Is there any last words that needs to be said?”

The dying man coughed violently, his breath growing shallower.

“M-Mister Holm-mes,” he sputtered.

“Yes, that is I,” Sherlock nodded.

“P-Porlock…” the man’s voice grew quieter and quieter. “S-sends his regards-ss… t-tell her… th-that he… is… always… watching… her-”

The man’s eyes grew unfocused, his breathing ceased altogether after one final exhale. Sherlock stared at the man, studying his face and his features as he reflected upon his last words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we have one-half of the problem revealed and a death of another. I know that there was little to no screen time for our unfortunate friend, so I won't be so surprised if anyone didn't care much for his departure....
> 
> I know that sounded awful just now. Anyway. Thoughts?
> 
> *note: I forgot to thank all of you who's been so generous to subscribing, sending kudos and bookmarking this. I couldn't have done this without you guys and thank you so much for the feedback on my tumblr post, you know who you are as well as those who left likes on my tumblr posts.


	7. A deed like Saint Telemachus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a struggle to pull through on this particular chapter. Since I have no beta reader, and although my bro helps me with plot points; he isn't the sort who would want to read fanfic generally, so I'm stuck with myself. I have no confidence with this chapter in all honesty but I managed to finish the first arc. Yay!
> 
> You know how I mentioned that this fic is more plotfic than a sherlolly shipfic? So far, the outcome had me surprised (and peeved btw) at myself of how less romantic Molly and Sherlock are in this. I’ll try harder perhaps on the next arc, perhaps.

Baker Street was, for the lack of a better word; in chaos. Bustling crowds of men, women and children alike brought out a clamour of noise in the open streets. Carriage accidents were common in the streets of London, but this night brought out the worst of its kind. Molly stood by the windowsill, her hand pushing the curtain aside to gain a full view of the scene.

 _He’s dead,_ she thought, _Mansworth’s gone. And I-_

From where she stood, she could see everything that had taken place. Holmes was there, on the open road, talking to a constable whilst two other officers had Mansworth’s body laid out into a stretcher. His body was draped with a black cloth as the officers took him into a wagon. A few other officers approached the crowd and had to hold them all out, making a human barrier between the onlookers and the scene of the crime. Doctor Watson, who had left her side for quite some time, was standing next to the consulting detective, taking down notes.

The very sight of the full view of the entire street brought her to a realization that Holmes must have seen her approach his steps. She didn’t deny the possibility of having him witness the entire scene that took place much earlier.

She winced at the throbbing ache on her head, feeling the weight of her hair underneath the wig. Her chest tightened from the bindings that wrapped around her breasts; her skin itched by the moustache and side burns. The full set of her disguise had begun to work against her; the idea of wanting to strip away those confinements was luring in her thoughts.

“Is everything alright?”

Molly gasped with a jolt at the sound of the elderly woman’s voice.

She turned around to see Mrs Hudson, whom Watson had briefly introduced, carrying a full tea set on a tray.

“No, everything’s fine,” she responded almost too quickly, her voice quivered and cracked after the tears she had shed earlier. “I’m just a little, well, under the weather after…” Molly gestured at the window.

“Oh yes,” Mrs Hudson nodded empathetically. “I can understand. You poor dear, it must have been so awful.”

Molly gave her a faint smile and lowered her head with a little nod. Mrs Hudson rested the tray onto the small table that stood a few paces away from the settee. In that instant, Molly felt a throb of pain on her chest, bringing her to quicken her breath. She had to hold the edge of the windowsill to keep herself standing upright.

Mrs Hudson, who witnessed this taking place, approached her.

“Why won’t you sit down,” her eyes were filled with concern. “I think it best that you should.”

Molly replied with a silent nod, the throbbing of her head was weakening her resolve to decline. The elderly woman watchfully guided her to the settee; when she finally sat down, Molly felt her muscles slack in relief.

“I’m sorry for troubling you,” Molly final said after taking a few short breaths. “Having to come by at this hour of the night.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” the elderly woman said warmly. “A client is a client regardless of the hour. Mr. Holmes had clients in the past who even had the nerve to arrive hours after the stroke of midnight.”

She then gestured at the attire and added;

“Isn’t that a little uncomfortable for you, dear?”

Molly wasn’t exactly surprised with her question. After all, Doctor Watson did introduce her as _Miss_ rather than what she had disguised herself as.

“It seems that my disguise seemed to have failed me,” Molly said sheepishly.

“Oh no dear, it wasn’t quite so obvious from the start,” Mrs Hudson nodded. “Although, even without Doctor Watson’s introduction, I might have figured it out at some point, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Molly could only chuckle sadly at her words. With a little bit of reluctance, she then began by removing the faux hair on her face. As soon as she carefully removed the wig from her head, the throbbing headache had begun to dissipate, much to her relief.

 “So far, there had only been four,” –Molly paused for a moment to correct herself, noting the recently deceased Mansworth- “three people now who know what lies beneath my mask; two of which have already managed to find out within a span of less than two days. That in itself tells me that I’ll need to reassess how I should be handling these things in the nearer future.”

The bustling noise below had begun to dissipate, which brought her attention back towards the window. From where she sat, she could only see the crowd’s long-casted shadows against the buildings across them. Incoherent shouts were made, followed by the sound of an orchestra of baritones making an uproar. The very sounds they made piqued her curiosity which brought her to her feet; ignoring the aches that throbbed at her muscles.

“What on earth is going on down there?” she asked rhetorically.

She then strode to the window, pushing the curtain aside and witnessed a crowd of policemen pushing the carriage upright. Right there, she spotted the driver, limping as he walked, as his hands were shackled by the policemen behind him. There was no sign of Holmes or Doctor Watson from where she stood.

“It appears that tonight is going to be a long one,” Doctor Watson’s voice reverberated from the other side of the door. “There’s no doubt that the press will be coming ‘round any time soon.”

“They’ll have their hands full before your words reaches theirs,” –said Holmes as Mrs Hudson approached the door and opened it- “I am sure that they have other witnesses who are more willing to cooperate with their inquiries-”

Holmes ceased his words the very moment he entered the room. His eyes immediately appeared transfixed at the very sight of her. Molly in turn, looked at him briefly and lowered her head; reminded of the fact that she had her wig, moustache and sideburns removed.

Doctor Watson cleared his throat and said; “Miss Hooper.”

She was suddenly aware that she was still clinging onto the pieces of her disguise with her two hands. Upon that thought alone brought her to hide them behind her back. Mrs Hudson moved aside and gestured to let the men in the parlour. As soon as Holmes and Watson entered the room, the elderly housekeeper disappeared from the room, making her way down the steps.

A short silence ensued between the three, as neither one of them were mutually hesitant to address the elephant in the room.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions in mind,” she finally said as the two men sat down on their respective seats. “Regarding my reasons for my disguise, I mean. And my… involvement with the boxing matches they held.”

The atmosphere was stifling in her position, as though a line was drawn up to hold up a delicate balance between them.

“No,” Holmes said coldly. “I think that I have all the answers I needed. However, I take it that you had the means of informing me with everything you know but was interrupted by the man whom you referred to as Mansworth who now lies dead from that carriage incident earlier. I deduce that what must have happened was that he was against your visit to my premises. And with that he must have slipped a word too many to divert your attention towards him. But inevitably he left you with more questions than answers and just before you had the chance, well, we all know where it all ended.”

Molly snorted at his words. “As expected from the highly esteemed Sherlock Holmes. I must say that I have to congratulate you for your deductions to lead you up to this point.”

Doctor Watson, who had been shifting his glances from Holmes to Molly during their exchange then said; “Miss Hooper, would you like to have a seat?”

“Thank you, Doctor,” she nodded at his offer and sat on the chair. Her hands rested flat on her knees with the pieces of her disguise set on her lap.

“Manuel Hooper,” Holmes began. “According to the state records, there has only ever been two _‘Manuel’_ Hoopers in London. One of which is an older man in his withering years and another who happened to be recently deceased. The latter describes of a man of an average height, an educated man who worked in the mortuary based within the centre of London. He had a promising life ahead of him, only have his body found within a ditch. And yet, within the premises of St Bart’s there lies another Manuel Hooper, alive and well; performing his duties whilst taking the extra mile on making post-mortems. Having collected my findings, I’ve decided to search for another ‘Hooper’ within the records and found one particular _‘Margaret’_ Hooper. A woman of an average height of her gender, unmarried, who had recently completed her education within a medical institute for women. The institute specialized in training women to enter into the medical profession. And yet, despite being one of the highest of her class to become a doctor herself, she chose to become a midwife instead. Turning down a great opportunity to become one of the first batch of women to take the role as a doctor.”

“How… on earth were you able to gain so much information within less than a day?” Molly asked, shocked as she was appalled at how thorough he was in his research.

“I had good word with the man in charge of the state archives,” Holmes answered her. “Although I must admit, Watson had confirmed this information when he told me that your late father was one of his patients. In all honesty I was surprised to find that he had withheld this fact to my knowledge.”

Her fingers began to curl and claw at the fabric of her trousers as he continued.

“Two people who share the same family name; the same date of birth; the same goals; the same interests; but not of the same sex. It was no longer a surprise to me by the time I had confirmed that the two of you were of the same flesh and blood. As it is a rare occasion for twins who share the same face but not have shared the same sex, anyone would never have suspected it to be possible for either of them to take each other’s roles on certain occasions. However, if someone were to see your true face, they could have easily seen through your disguise. That is why you gave up the opportunity to become a doctor and chose the life of a midwife to keep a low profile.”

“Are you disappointed, then, Holmes?” asked Molly. “Seeing the woman beneath a man’s disguise, alone and nothing to her name?”

“Quite the contrary.”

He then stood up and took a few steps closer to her until he was no farther than a breadth away from her.

“The Manuel Hooper I’ve known in the morgue is no less different from the Margaret Hooper who is now sits before me,” he said. “Although I must admit that I had expect you to be more guarded, now that I have unveiled through your disguise.”

With him standing ever so close to her, Molly tilted her head up and stopped breathing as her eyes drank in the sight of his face. His shimmering blue-green eyes held a piercing gaze, his lips neither frowned nor smiled. The steadiness of his expression brought her to question the meaning behind the words he had spoken. She turned her head away before she would lose herself in his eyes.

Holmes then drew himself away from her, striding towards a writing desk by the window.

“It is an interesting case you have here, Miss Hooper,” he remarked as he flitted through the papers that were held by a paperweight. “Before I can state what other pieces I gathered, I wish to hear your side of the story in order to gain a full perspective of the matter at hand.”

Hearing his words had only brought more tensions to her nerves, realizing that what happens afterwards may be a point of no return. But at the flash of her memory of what she saw back in the morgue, with a long sigh she asked;

“Where do you want me to begin? On the day I received news from my father of my brother’s passing? On the day I when I decided to begin investigating the nature of my brother’s associates? Or do I start with my accounts during those fortnightly sessions?”

Holmes chuckled; “Well, Hooper, let us start from the very beginning. To be precise, I am curious to know what led you to the boxing matches in the first place.”

Molly turned to Doctor Watson, eyeing him as though she hoped to find an answer at the sight of his face. She turned to the detective and began;

“Shortly after hearing the news of my brother’s passing; to be precise, after Doctor Watson had made his diagnosis of my father fate, I came across a cigar box underneath my brother’s bed. What I found there were these,” –she gestured at the wig and the other pieces of her disguise on her lap- “as well as two other sets of disguises. The fact that I found these among his hidden possessions brought me to question the very nature of his work in the morgue. Hence, why I decided to invest my hours within the morgue at St Barts, donning his clothes and his disguises.”

“May I?” Holmes gestured at the pieces, his eyes glimmering in eager curiosity.

“Of course,” Molly answered as the man strode towards her and took the wig from her hands.

He held the wig up and flitted it with his fingers, observing the strands.

“This is a first class wig,” he remarked at its craft. “I could only imagine the price he must have paid to have this made.”

“I am no expert in the art of disguise, Holmes,” she said as he turned the wig around his hands. “But upon finding these in his possessions can only mean that he was involved with something which led to his death. I couldn’t bear to sit idly as I watched my father whither by Manuel’s passing. So I had to find the answers to shed a light of hope to my father’s eyes or at least give him some form of closure. The first clue I found was a small piece of paper on the bottom of the cigar box. To be precise, a telegram.”

“What did it say?” asked Doctor Watson.

“It was an address to the warehouse along with the words; ‘ _Send word. You are next._ ’”

Doctor Watson glanced at Holmes’s direction briefly. Holmes in turn continued to observe the wig in his hands.

“After my father’s passing, which was a few days after I found the telegram,” Molly continued. “That was where I met Mansworth while I was on my way towards the said address. From there, I had already informed you of what happened afterwards.”

“That was where you met Andrews’s impersonator,” said Holmes.

“Yes.”

“You mentioned to me earlier in the morgue that you were there to ‘simply observe’ did you not? Mind if I ask of you what it was that you were observing?”

Molly took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. After a pause she replied;

“Initially I wanted to know what was so significant about that warehouse to my brother. As well as the question as to why he was, as the telegram suggested, ‘next.’ I hoped at first that I might see something that could have led to something rather significant of a clue to his death. But, at the same time, I hoped to learn how to impersonate a man’s behaviour through my observation. I thought that if I were to continue to pursue the truth of the matter, it was a greater risk for me if I were to do so as a woman.”

“That’s hardly the sort of behaviour society would wish to condone, Miss Hooper,” said Doctor Watson. “There are better examples of gentry’ behaviour that you should be modelling from, if you were to, *ahem* be part of the crowd.”

“But given the facts that Manuel was involved within the company of squandering men could only leave an impression to one’s eye. A gentleman’s disposition would stand out of place in a set like that. Because I cannot act like my brother from memory, I thought I would might as well model it from…”

She bit her lip at the very thought of it.

“…I know it sounds awful,” she said, noting at the peculiar look that the good doctor had made on her words. “But I cannot find peace with myself or with Manuel’s passing until I know what it was that must have led to his death. Even if it meant go so far as to learn from such behaviours.”

“So in other words, throughout the entire time, you have frequently made your visits as a means to educate yourself of a man’s world,” Holmes reiterated. “Then I take it that you have been paying close attention to the very nature of these matches, did you not?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I was solely focused on the spectators rather than the spectacle that I failed to see through every event. The first time I saw one, I couldn’t last a mere minute and turned my head away. Most times I’ve only properly witnessed its aftermath.”

“What a pity,” the detective sighed dejectedly at her answer.

The very expression he made brought her to narrow her eyelids at him.

“And why is that?” she eyed him dubiously.

“It is a pity because you failed to perceive what was laid out right in front of you,” Holmes answered. “What if I were to inform you that, from the very beginning, those matches were purposefully rigged by the man who sponsored the event?”

 _There it is,_ she thought.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I’ve only just realized it this very night.”

“Oh?” the detective perked up his brow.

“I’ve only pieced it together after our conversation earlier,” she began to explain. “The bodies that were left in the morgue; they all had the same scars and bruising. I first thought it might have been some accident that had occurred in a factory somewhere. But then I found the same wounds that that the real Andrews had on his limbs; I shuddered at the depth of my sin to turn a blind eye to the facts all this time.”

Holmes then looked at her deviously, seemingly impressed at what she had to say. As calm and collected as he was, Molly could have sworn he appeared to be bursting with enthusiasm. As if he had been holding back something he had been so eager to share.

“What?” Molly asked, almost disturbed at his eagerness. “Is there something you wanted to say, Holmes?”

“Ah, please continue, Hooper,” he said. “I’d like to hear what else is there that you have found in your conclusion.”

Molly pouted briefly. “Mr Sherlock Holmes, this entire case isn’t worth getting all excited about.”

“Of course it isn’t, I’m just curious to hear about what you have concluded within the short span of time.”

“Holmes,” Watson darted a look at the said detective.

Molly lowered her head, a little unsure if her conclusions were indeed right, she then asked;

“The bruising found on those bodies. Those men, they were beaten half to death by an experienced contender were they not?”

Holmes answered with a knowing nod.

She inhaled sharply, taking in this confirmation gravely in her thoughts.

“All that time… All this time… Those men were taken into the centre of the ring against their will like slaves and were forced to fend for themselves. I could imagine that they were rounded up by headmasters or managers within the factory as candidates for these events. The signs were all there, those men who lost their lives in the fight were all workers from the factories. With the fights being rigged, I could imagine that after the events, these men were casted aside on the open street; dying from their wounds.”

Molly then looked at Holmes in the eye and asked; “Am I not wrong?”

Holmes took a deep breath and answered;

“You are right, on certain areas. However, there are a few things that you may have missed in your conclusion.”

“Then correct me, Holmes. What other pieces have I missed?”

“You are quite right that these men were indeed bludged half to death; as well as the fact that these men were placed into the centre of the ring against their will. Like gladiators in the fighting pits, they were forced to fight in order to survive. However, I will mention where you are wrong. Yes, some of those men are labourers and workers from the factories; however, there were few others who were not. Some of them were men from a higher position and was dragged into the scene and forced to fight against men who had the strength to break them within a matter of minutes.”

Her eyes widened at the revelation.

“And another thing I should correct you, Hooper,” Holmes continued. “After these events, those wounded men were finished off by beating them even further until they could stand no further. Once the man is no longer fit to move an inch, they would throw their bodies at some random street. Throwing their bodies far away from the vicinity of the warehouse.”

A chill ran down her spine, bringing her to shiver once she connected the dots. She gasped at the realization at the familiarity of its scenario.

“I am very sorry, Miss Hooper,” Doctor Watson spoke reverently. “But I’m afraid to tell you that, based on your side of the story, we can only conclude that your brother Manuel Hooper was one of those victims.”

Molly placed her two hands over her mouth, wide-eyed and horrified at the confirmation of his words.

“Who in God’s name would do such a thing?” she said. “What kind of sadistic sort of man would organize such brutality?”

“Tyrants,” Holmes answered. “Men who find pleasure in seeing others in pain.”

“And what did my brother do to deserve this?” her hands curled into tight fists. “My brother may have made some mischievous deeds in the past; but not once has he ever done anything to deserve such cruelty!”

“I am inclined to disagree.”

Molly darted a glare at the detective.

“On what grounds would you dare to make such a statement?” she stood from her seat, planted her feet flat on the ground and faced him directly. “You’ve seen his records, Holmes. I would have you know that Manuel may have been a trouble-maker in the past, but not once would he be foolish enough to make enemies.”

Holmes remained unfazed by her words.

“Unfortunately, Hooper, I am afraid tell you that somewhere deep down inside, you might have known that might not be true,” said he. “That your brother must have taken a terrible turn in his life that sealed the fate of his demise.”

Molly opened her mouth to speak, but the more she took Holmes’s words into account, all the more it seemed to have more weight in his words.

Mansworth’s death, was a testament to that as she heard echoes of their last exchange in her ears;

_‘Your brother… made certain… that everything he did… was so… to… spare his family… from a harder life…’_

Holmes sighed and stood up, striding his way towards the window. Molly’s eyes followed him until he stood still.

“Hooper,” he began. “What I am about to tell you is merely a hypothesis, rather than proven facts as I am still in the process of finding the very root of this case. I can only assume that Manuel Hooper had himself involved with these rigged matches. Nobody knows whether he was just one of the many ushers of the events or one of the main conspirators of the matches. At some point, he made one mistake that disappointed one of the higher ups; which led to his demise. What I can confirm, however, is that for whatever reason it was; his death had shed his light to the many un-answerable deaths that had been scattered around London.”

* * *

 

After insisting fervently that she could handle her journey home without an escort, Molly had finally settled into a cab and drove all the way to her home. Before she left Baker Street completely, she dropped a mention to the two men that her medical bag was left behind on a cab she was on. Doctor Watson then assured her that he would drop by Scotland Yard on his way home to have a word with her lost property.

She reflected upon the unravelling events that she had witnessed. The nature of her brother’s death; the revelation of his involvement; and the numerous questions that had begun to rise out of herself. Yet despite all her questions, she was had only begun to accept little by little of what was given to her. That for once, she was able to feel and accept the weight of the reality before her.

By the time she arrived at her doorstep, she had only just remembered that her key was left inside the medical bag that she had lost. To make matters worse was knowing that there was no one inside her house that could open the door for her.

She was just about to give up hope, only to realize that there was another way inside.

 _No,_ she chided at herself. _Don’t be silly, Molly Hooper._

Molly twisted the knob of her front door, half-tempted to hope at the idea that she would have recklessly left the door unlocked before she left. But to no avail, the door was bolted shut.

Rolling her eyes, as she cursed at her own carelessness for leaving her bag behind. Before she allowed herself to think any further, she hastened her way towards the side of her house on the side of the brick masonry of her chimney. With a little bit of reluctance, she scaled the walls with the assistance of the iron bars, climbing her way up until she reached the platform. She struggled her way to have her two feet on the platform walkways, making her way along the plank and entered the house through one of the windows.

Upon her success of finally entering her home, she gave out a long sigh of relief and strode her way out of the room and into her own bedroom. Molly walked passed the desk which was situated a few paces away from the door against the wall. Within the darkness of the night, she failed to notice the note that lay flatly on the desk as she closed the door behind her.

On that note it wrote:

> _“I know who you are._
> 
> _If you value your life, stay away_
> 
> _From Mr Sherlock Holmes.”_

 

**_End of Act 1_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their troubles are far from over.
> 
> And once again: shout out to my lovely subscribers who had been so patient with me and putting up with my flawed writing. I hope this chapter has pleased you and I hope to please you even more with the next arc.
> 
> And please, don't hesitate to share your thoughts, because in all honesty, this was a struggle and I hope to improve on this.


	8. Act II; Prologue II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I was conflicted between using the novel version of Mary or BBC Mary. Oh well. Doesn’t matter. I got you guys a chapter/prologue super early. YAY!
> 
> Btw. Many references to "Valley of Fear" Just saying.

“That was quite odd of you to reveal your hypothesis,” said Watson. “Normally you would only state your findings once you’ve arrived at a conclusion.”

Holmes, who slid his bow onto the strings of his violin continued to do so without pause.

“Holmes,” Watson said once more. “Is there a particular reason as to why?”

Holmes then ceased his playing, his eyes fixed on the scene of the ‘accident’ earlier. Without losing focus on the scenery, he answered with a question; “Do you remember what happened during the Birlstone case?”

“Which part?” Watson asked. “The part where Douglass was found to be alive or the part where he was lost overboard during his trip to Africa?”

“I meant the informant who calls himself ‘Fred Porlock’.”

“Ah yes,” Watson remembered. “The man who informed us of Douglass’s impending fate. Who could forget a faceless man who sent us the cipher message without the cipher?”

Holmes continued to stare at the scenery reflectively. After a short pause, he then said;

“During his last moments, Mansworth mentioned of Porlock. ‘Porlock sends his regards,’ he said, also requested me to tell her that ‘ _he_ is watching her.’” –He turned to his friend to face him and added- “What do you make of it? What do you suppose which ‘he’ was he referring to?”

“Wait a moment Holmes,” Watson’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You failed to carry a man’s dying words to the intended person?”

“I merely withheld it,” Holmes admitted. “I thought it be best if she were to be told when her mind is in its best state.”

“But Holmes, how could you?!”

“Calm yourself, Watson,” the detective said coolly. “If I were to reveal his dying words before her right then and there, I’m certain that she would be far too emotionally affected by it. Chances are, if she heard it, we wouldn’t be able to hear her side of the story.”

The doctor sighed and shook his head.

“Holmes,” he pointed at the detective. “With a message as cryptic and foreboding as that, don’t you think Miss Hooper deserves to know the truth? Those words are coming from a dying man’s breath, for God’s sake! For all we know, it might be a warning.”

“You are quite right there, Watson,” Holmes agreed, much to Watson’s surprise. “However, there was another purpose for withholding that information. As far as we know, the last we’ve heard from Porlock, he informed us that Moriarty suspects him. And how long ago do you think has passed since we’ve received that last letter?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Watson answered ponderingly. “I know it was somewhere ‘round last year.”

“To be precise, eleven months ago. With that being said, when Molly Hooper came into the picture, it was around ten months prior to this day when she posed herself as Manuel Hooper.”

Watson narrowed his eyes; “You don’t suppose-”

Holmes nodded and added; “How long ago was it when you visited the Hooper household for a house call?”

“No,” Watson shook his head. “You mean to say that Porlock is actually-!”

Watson’s words were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Doctor Watson,” said Mrs Hudson from the other side of the door. The door then swung open and had Mrs Hudson’s head popped into their view. “Your wife is here.”

Watson was taken aback by the news, and just before he could say anything in reply, Mary Watson strode into the picture.

“Mary!” Watson said, steadily approaching his wife as he did. “You shouldn’t be out about during this time of the night. Think of the child-”

“How could I sit and wait around the house alone while you were out around this time of the night,” she interjected. “Whenever you are out at this time of the night, I can’t stay still for one moment.”

“Good evening, Mrs Watson,” greeted Holmes.

With a warm but tired smile she turned to Holmes and greeted; “Good evening Mr Holmes.”

“I apologize for holding your husband so late around this time of the night,” Holmes said, nodding lightly. The detective then turned to Watson. “I think it best that we should call it a night. We’re done for the rest of the day.”

Watson opened his mouth to speak, but closed it shut, his eyes shifting from his wife to the detective who now stood adjacent to the fireplace. His eyes returned to his wife, who gave him a questioning look. With a long sigh, Watson decided to give in to his wife’s request.

“Alright then,” the Doctor said, striding towards his wife’s side. “We’re done for the rest of the evening then.”

Just before he walked his wife out of the room, he stopped to turn towards his friend.

“Let me just say this, Holmes,” said Watson. “If Porlock is indeed whom you think it is, then isn’t that all the more reason for you to let her know? At the very least, you could at least put the poor girl at ease to know that everything that her brother did was justifiable.”

“It was merely a hypothesis,” his friend replied. “Nothing is absolute as of this point. Not when there aren’t enough evidence to support my theory.”

Watson shook his head.

“Really Holmes, you are a little trying at times,” –Watson turned to his wife, then towards Mrs Hudson and Holmes briefly- “Good evening, Mrs Hudson. Holmes.”

“Good evening, Watson,” Holmes reciprocated.

When the Watsons had left the house, Holmes repositioned his violin onto his shoulder and chin; sliding his bow onto the strings once more. As he played his piece, his thoughts flowing into a stream of the key pieces of the case. His eyes then pointed to the window once more, staring into the darkness as if the criminal mastermind himself would emerge from the shadows.

If he played his cards right with Hooper’s case, something told him that he might be one step closer into bringing the celebrated mathematician down from his pedestal of crime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention: reading Sherlock in the novel makes him out to be a very enigmatic character. We know his opinion towards emotions, we know about his set of skills, but I still feel that there's still so much about him that are left unsaid.
> 
> When writing this fic, I feel like the man himself is quite the enigma in this. So much is told and yet so little is known about him.


	9. The interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, for starters: THANK YOU FOR THE 40 SUBS. I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH.  
> And also, this one's another looong chapter.  
> But I hope that this will suffice to your weekly dose.  
> Hehe.  
> Enjoy.

The skies were at its brightest state. Spring had come to the city as a row of varying hues of colour blooming from every flora bushel. Small weeds of dandelion sprouted at the edges of a few houses nearby; a rare find among the soot-aired London. And yet, despite that spring had come, to Molly, it was the month of mourning.

She stood before the line of graves just a few miles away from the heart of the city. With what was left of the earnings of her deceased family members, she was able to at least afford a decent gravestone for her father and brother to share. As odd as it was, she never came to question what it was that led to her to feel the need to have her father share the same mound as her brother. What she could recall was that on the day they received news of her brother’s passing, her father refused her to see Manuel’s body. Upon his return, her father had worn such a forlorn expression as he informed her with hollowly that his face was apparently disfigured from all the battering.

Although her current financial state allowed her the luxury of keeping a maid, at the time, she could only afford to pay for a short funeral service for her father. Odd as it was, the only proper respects she could afford for Manuel was for his burial, therefore, she was not able to be given the luxury of his viewing before his body descended into the earth.

 _All this time,_ she thought. _The police thought it were a common mugging and run._

She knew better now that the truth had revealed itself. However…

“A flower for you, miss.”

Molly turned to find a young girl with a basket hanging by her arm; filled a variety of small flowers that could be found growing in-between the cracks of cobblestones and houses. On the other hand however, held a white rose that appeared to have neither withered nor bruised. On its stem was a satin blue ribbon, tied into a neat bow with a pearl button at its centre. The girl presented it before Molly, raising it at an arm’s length to indicate that the white bloom was intended for her alone.

“Oh no, I cannot accept-”                                                                      

“-An ‘ansom gent sent this to me to give to ya,” said the girl. “Said t’was a cryin’ shame to find a pretty lady to ‘ave such a sad face on a nice day.”

She faintly smiled and asked her; “tell me then, young miss, who is this gentleman who brought this to me?”

“He won’t say,” the girl replied. “He stopped me for one moment then left.”

It wouldn’t take an expert for her to know that the ribbon was made from a high-grade satin. The pearl stud-button on the centre appeared to be genuine itself. Molly turned her head from side to side to see if there was a man in sight who was watching from a distance.

To be given such an expensive gift, she couldn’t bring herself to accept it. Seeing that the only ones who were there were no more than fellow mourners, she turned her gaze back to the girl.

She smiled at her and unfastened the ribbon from the stem.

“Open out your hand,” she said to the girl.

The girl raised out an open palm. Molly then placed the ribbon and the pearl button onto the palm of the girl’s hand.

“I think this will suffice to pay for your services,” Molly said. “This pearl seems worth two baskets’ worth of your flowers.”

The girl’s eyes beamed with a wide smile, thanking Molly as she left. When she was finally left alone, Molly then bent down before the grave and placed the white rose on the mound.

* * *

 

It has been a month since that night she visited Baker Street. Odd as it was after that night, she had her guard down whenever Holmes was within her sights. Perhaps it was knowing that he knew who she was did Molly feel less inclined to hold up a certain disposition.

However, as of this point, seeing him was the last person she would want to see.

Molly was in the middle of pulling back the skin of a man’s torso when Holmes came around.

“Good evening gentlemen,” Doctor Watson’s voice greeted at the undertakers who were on duty. The men present reciprocated the greeting. Molly had her back turned to the door, therefore she was unable to see Holmes striding into the room.

“Hooper,” the low baritone greeted her.

She cocked her head to the side, seeing Holmes within her sights and shifted her focus back to the task at hand.

“Whatever it is that you want, Holmes, leave me be,” she said darkly. “I have my hands full at the moment.”

“Don’t be like that Hooper,” said Holmes as she heard footsteps steadily approach her from behind. “I am only asking for a few moments of your time.”

“Don’t you have better things to do; other cases to solve?” she retorted. “Other people to torment other than myself?”

“Actually Doctor Hooper,” another familiar, yet nostalgic voice began to explain. “I asked these two gentlemen to come here, therefore they are under my jurisdiction. We are here to ask for your assistance.”

She turned her head around to see Inspector Lestrade standing a few paces before Holmes and Doctor Watson. One look at the inspector, Molly then huffed and covered the dead man’s body with a sheet. She then washed her hands by the only two water taps within the lab and reproached the three men.

“And for what purpose does the inspector of Scotland Yard have to need for my services?” she asked him.

“Just a few questions regarding Thomas Mansworth,” the inspector replied. “I was made aware that you were well acquainted with him.”

Molly then eyed at the two gentlemen who stood behind the inspector. The Doctor looked genuinely concerned whilst the consulting detective held an emotionless expression. She looked at the Inspector once more.

“In my office,” she said as she gestured to exit the lab.

She led the three men down the hallway and into her office, closing the door behind them as she offered for them to take any available seats.

“There isn’t a lot of things I can say about Mansworth,” she began as she settled onto her seat. “So therefore I cannot guarantee that my answers will suffice to your needs.”

“I understand the circumstances, Doctor Hooper. But there has been new information that has been brought to light regarding his murder,” said the Inspector.

“…Do you now, Inspector?” she asked in dubiously.

“What I can understand, from what Mr Holmes have to say is that the two of you were well-acquainted by chance and had one or two exchanges in conversations. I, I mean, _we_ are here just to hear your impressions on the man himself.”

Molly turned to Holmes, giving him a look that silently told him she would want to have a word with him to explain what sort of predicament as he led her into. Doctor Watson, who, had been warily observing her, silently assured her that her secret was spared from the Inspector before her.

“My impressions?” she asked. “Please elaborate, inspector, because I do not wish to take most of your time giving you answers that won’t be of use to you.”

“Very well, then. How long ago have you met this man?”

“At least for more than a year to my knowledge.”

“And how did you find yourself acquainted with Mr Mansworth?”

Molly then realized the risk that she had placed herself into. She had only an inkling of an idea that Manuel, who she was impersonating, had known Mansworth for much longer than she had. In her mind, she scoured through the depths of her memory of her conversations with Mansworth prior to his death. Finding a hint or a clue of how he and her brother had acquainted himself with.

And to no avail, she couldn’t find the answer to the question.

“I cannot say,” she admitted. “It has been an age since I’ve first met him. All I can say was that one day, I was taking a night stroll in the streets and it was there I met him.”

The inspector nodded at her answer. “How did you find Mansworth and his disposition during the times you have met him?”

“He was… well, as far as I’ve known, he has a tendency to find ways of putting a person at ease. The jolly sort of man who could easily befriend anyone, regardless of the classes.”

In her memory of him, while she had observed those boxing matches, she recalled how easily he could mingle with any sort of gentry of different classes. For the most part, she remembered how it took her by surprise at one point where a rich gentlemen joined them during one of the matches. Mansworth, without any effort, managed to gain the man’s favour and had joined with him in watching the spectacle.

“Doctor Hooper,” said Inspector Lestrade. “We have been informed that you were a witness to a set of boxing events that were held within a warehouse by East London. We have also been made aware that you and Mansworth were regulars in these events.”

“Just a moment, inspector,” she stopped him. “I thought that the case has already been solved in the last fortnight.”

“Well, yes and no unfortunately,” said the inspector, then gesturing to the consulting detective. “As far as we are aware, another case was brought to our attention after the incident with the boxing matches. It was gravely put to light with the death of Thomas Mansworth. Hence as to why we are here in the very first place.”

“… I see,” Molly said ponderingly, as she was curious to know what leads they have found. “It is true that both Mansworth and I have been a regular to those events, for a time. But for the most part of my involvement within the events, there isn’t anything that I am aware of that could help you. Save for the facts that I have shared with Holmes and Doctor Watson.”

“Yes, well, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson have already informed me of what I need to know. But as I have been informed, there’s no one else other than yourself who could tell us of Mansworth and his associates.”

The inspector then slipped his hand into his breast pocket and presented her with a few, folded sheets of paper. Inspector lestrade then unfolded each of them, revealing sketches of individuals whom Molly had immediately recognized.

“These men,” the inspector pointed at illustrations. “Have you seen any of these faces within the boxing matches before?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” she answered as she shuddered at the memory.

Her answer brought a curious look on his face.

“Why unfortunate, may I ask?”

“It is unfortunate that I know these men because they were the few who were particularly enthusiastic of seeing their champion beat the poor contender to a pulp.” –She pointed at the man with a grizzled beard- “This man, though. Mansworth introduced him to me as Martin Andrews. He and Mansworth were often speaking to each other in private at times whenever he is present. Now that I know that this Andrews was no more than an impersonator, I couldn’t tell whether Mansworth was aware of it.”

“And the other four?”

Molly’s gaze briefly hovered over the creased illustrations. “I remember these faces, but I was never properly introduced to either of these men. What I can tell you though was that Mansworth would always worn a grave face at whenever he spoke to them.” –She paused for a moment to ponder at her memories- “Now that I think about it, yes, Mansworth did have a different atmosphere to him the very moment he saw these men. Andrews’ impersonator, however, was the only man whom he appeared to be at ease.”

“By any chance,” Doctor Watson began. “Did you happen to overhear Mr Mansworth’s conversations with these men?”

“Only once, but I cannot recall the very nature of it.”

“Surely, you could remember at least the very gist of it?”                         

“No, unfortunately,” she picked up the five sketched into her hands as she observed every feature of their faces. “Not one that I can recall.”

“What about Martin Andrews’s impersonator,” Holmes asked so suddenly, “what can you tell us about him and his disposition?”

Molly paused for a thought and answered; “he was an odd fellow, I’ll give you that. Just like Mansworth, the man was also the smiling sort. However, unlike Mansworth, it was a little too forced, dare I say so. At first I thought that these two must have been well-acquainted with for a long time. Which was why it gave me an impression that Mansworth must have known his true identity. But then again, given Mansworth’s disposition, he had always been treating anyone like an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while. So I can’t really be so certain.”

Inspector Lestrade and Doctor Watson looked at Holmes briefly and turned their gazes back to Molly. Molly was unaware of their gazes as she tried to recall the little details she had witnessed to those events. Then, a question revealed itself before her, bringing her to ask;

“I don’t know whether it is my business to ask this, but what sort of case are you dealing with here? Perhaps I might be of help in the long run of your investigation.”

Inspector Lestrade hesitated for a moment, but when his eyes met with her firm gaze, he gave a long, reluctant sigh.

“After we closed down the warehouse and arrested the owner, the man confessed to us that they have been holding illegal auctions of stolen goods within the same vicinity. Mr Mansworth, as well as those five other individuals,” –the inspector pointed at the sketches on her hands- “were accessories to the crime. These men were responsible for ushering the buyers of these auctions into a separate room where the auction was to be held.”

Molly’s eyes widened.

“I had no idea,” she said in a half-whisper, overwhelmed at the revelation.

“Doctor Hooper, as far as anyone is concerned, there is a chance that you will be placed under suspicion the very moment we find something that might lead towards you,” the Inspector continued. “Now, I trust what Holmes and Doctor Watson’s judgement of character, so therefore I trust your word for that matter. However, the man responsible for Mansworth’s death refuses to answer to Scotland Yard, and we have been made aware that you were the last man who spoke to him before his passing.”

She lowered her head and eyed the papers in hand. Rather than feeling threatened of the idea of being condemned as a suspect, the memory of that night could only bring one to feel a gloom looming through her head.

“…Yes, of course,” she said quietly. “It is an inevitable to be under suspicion, being associated with such a dangerous crowd. I swear in Manuel Hooper’s name that I am innocent if there were such suspicions that would point towards me.” –She passed the illustrations back to the inspector- “I won’t deny that I was the last to see Mansworth, however. Upon stumbling onto a realisation of the very nature of those fights, I decided to see Holmes in his quarters. On the night of his death, Mansworth stopped me before I could grasp the knocker and dragged me into an alleyway. He told me that if I were to associate Sherlock Holmes, I would throw away everything that has been built up. Told me that if I entered those doors, my life would be at stake...”

She paused when she remembered that those words were solely for her as Molly Hooper. Her thoughts then strung the words to embellish that fact as she continued; “I asked him why that was, but in the end he brushed me aside and made his way onto the open road. And… well. You know what happened next.”

A short silence followed after she spoke the words, with the inspector and the doctor wearing a sympathetic look on their faces. With a short nod, Inspector Lestrade stood from his seat and extended his hand to her.

“Thank you, Doctor Hooper,” he said. “For your cooperation. If there is anything that you wish to add to my knowledge, come by Scotland Yard to inform me the details.”

Molly stood up from her seat, took his hand and shook it, his firm grip almost crushing her own. Some part of her felt a little envious of the natural endowments that this man had in terms of strength. Upon releasing his grip, Molly walked towards the door; opening it for the three men to exit her office.

“I’ll see what I can find in the meantime,” she said to the inspector.

“Good day to you Doctor,” he said. “My apologies for taking up most of your time.”

“No, thank you sir. For letting me know.”

As the inspector exited her office, Doctor Watson followed, raising his hat to her slightly before making his way halfway through the door. Holmes however, remained seated. Doctor Watson then made a half-turn and asked;

“Holmes, aren’t you coming along?”

“No,” said the detective. “I wish to speak to Hooper alone for a few moments. You can tell Lestrade that he can go on ahead without me.”

Doctor Watson stared at him dubiously and looked at Molly. She on the other hand, eyed the doctor briefly, then pointed her gaze at Holmes.

“It’s alright, Doctor Watson,” she assured him. “I also need to have a word with him.”

The Doctor nodded at her, then turned to Holmes.

“Very well. Holmes, I must confess that I won’t be seeing you for the rest of the evening. So good night.” –He turned to Molly and made a curt nod at her- “Good night, Doctor Hooper.”

“Good night, Doctor Watson,” she reciprocated.

As soon as the two of them were left alone, Molly pulled up a chair a few paces away from Holmes and sat on it.

“Just so you know,” she began before he could speak. “I am not upset on the matter that you didn’t inform me right away regarding Mansworth’s last words. It’s just that it would have been better if I had been informed much sooner.”

“That’s quite assuring to hear,” he nodded. “However, Hooper, that is not what I wish to discuss with you. You never mentioned it before that by associating with me, your life would be at stake. Is that why you decided not to be so cooperative in the last week?”

“No, not at all, Holmes,” she answered. “Quite the contrary. The only reason why I didn’t wish to speak to you was because that I needed the space to think. It has nothing to do with Mansworth’s warning.”

 _After all,_ she thought. _Last week marked the first year since father’s passing._

As if he heard her thoughts, he then said; “My condolences to your family’s passing, by the way. I had an inkling of an idea that it might be the case, judging by your choice of wardrobe for the past several days. Although after that brief interview, I suspected that there might have been another reason.”

She scoffed a little, unsurprised by now at the little details he pointed out.

“Yes, there were other reasons, but one of them has nothing to do with the warnings I have received,” she said. “A month has already passed, and so far there hasn’t been anything unusual that caught my attention.”

“Warnings, you say? Do you mean to say that this has become a common occurrence?”

“No, I never said that,” she said almost too quickly. She looked at him for a moment, his eyes reflected his curiosity at her sudden outburst. She avoided his gaze and huffed in defeat. “Well… I suppose there was one thing that has been weighing on my mind.”

She stood up and walked over to her desk to pull her drawer on her desk open. There, she grabbed a type-written note. Holmes then stood up as she gestured to take the piece of paper from her hand.

His eyes followed the three short lines on the note, then narrowed his eyes.

“I found it on my brother’s writing desk one morning,” she explained. “I am not quite sure when this was sent to me.”

Holmes remained silent for a while and continued to stare at the note.

“For a moment I hesitated to return to St Barts upon my discovery of the note,” she continued. “But so far, nothing terrible has happened as of yet. Although I have been on guard with the matter, regardless.”

He pointed his eyes at her and finally said;

“It seems to me that you only have two safe options with this,” he raised the note in his hand. “Either you cease all your activities in the morgue or you unveil yourself before the public of who you really are. That way, it makes things less of a burden upon yourself.”

She frowned at his words.

“If I chose neither of them?” she asked him dubiously.

“Then I’m afraid that it will put more strain upon yourself, with you carrying a title that was never yours to begin with.”

“You know that is not an option I wish to consider,” she firmly said. “I’ve already established my position in St Bart’s. Everything that I’ve done for the past eleven months will all be for naught. You can’t just suggest something like that so easily.”

“I realized,” he said. “However given the circumstances, I should give you a little advice, based on our findings so far. These men, the ones responsible for Mansworth’s death, is a very cunning and patient sort. They would rouse a warning towards their prey, then let the dust settle for a time; and when the prey is most vulnerable and unsuspecting is when they would strike.”

Molly pressed her lips together and tucked her fisted hands deep into her pockets. She couldn’t hide the fear that was embedded onto her by his words. But she felt that she couldn’t tear herself away from the current life she was living in.

“Pardon me for saying this, but I believe that it would be easier for you if you were to be more honest within this line of work,” he added. “After all, you have no reason to continue on with this farce, now that you know the reason for your brother’s passing.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said darkly.

“I cannot comprehend why you would go so far as to continue with your practice despite gaining the answers that you need,” he continued. “Living a life that is not yours to begin with, not to mention that your lifestyle is strenuous to your health-”

“-I don’t expect you to understand, Holmes,” she said. “What I do here is necessary. I cannot abandon my position now. Not when I’ve already established and proven my worth-”

“-Don’t misunderstand, Hooper. I never insinuated that you should abandon your position in St Bart’s. In fact, you are one of the most capable examiners in this morgue, therefore I think it is a shame for such a talent be wasted on the limits that has restrained you.”

“Then what is it that you demand of me? What is it that you’re insinuating?”

“I am merely suggesting a proposition to reveal yourself before the world as Dr _Margaret_ Hooper,” he answered. “You have no reason to hide your true face before the shadows anymore. You have all the answers that you seek. Why make all your burdens even harder to carry if you have already fulfilled your objective?”

She lowered her head and furrowed her brows deeply.

“Do not mention that name within this vicinity,” she gravely answered. “Margaret Hooper does not exist the moment you enter these halls. Holmes, as Manuel, I find that my life is less of a burden and less restraint due to the freedom it has enabled me. The very moment Margaret Hooper enters these halls, she is less trust-worthy, unreliable. Despite the rising number of female physicians in this day and age, it is apparent that in the end, men are the most preferred when tasked to care for their patients. She wouldn’t last a month being watched by the men who make the rules of this world.”

Holmes didn’t say a word as his eyes gave her a piercing gaze.

“You don’t have to understand,” she said. “I don’t expect you to understand, either. But everything that I’ve said is what it is.”

“Well then, _Manuel_ Hooper,” he said, his lips curved into a mischievous smile. “I can assure you that I understand the validity of your sentiment. However, I will say this much. No man, woman or child can predict the consequences of their actions. So how can one determine whether or not that action can lead to one’s ruin or one’s success?”

Holmes then took a step closer towards the desk that stood between them.

“But I highly doubt that was the main reason for your decision, isn’t it?” he continued. “You’re afraid; but it isn’t because you’re afraid of the opinion of others. I’ve seen you for who you are and came to a conclusion that propriety and matters of the public opinion isn’t exactly what you cared for. It is confronting the isolation after your family left this world, is it not?”

Molly sighed and folded her arms as if to hold herself back. There was a valid point in what he said. However, she didn’t wish to say any further, les her words would be flung right back at her. She turned her back towards him, taking in a long breath before releasing it in a long sigh.

She then chuckled sadly, her back still facing him as she said; “You really like not leaving a stone unturned, don’t you, Holmes? At the very least, you could have been a little more delicate in your choice of words.”

“-Hooper-”

“Thank you Holmes. You may see yourself out through the door.”

A veil of silence fell between them, as neither of them knew what to say. To have the man say what she had been denying for so long had only brought an ache in her chest. It didn’t help with the fact that it has already been the first anniversary since her family’s passing. She knew what he said was true, but for now, she didn’t want to see anyone at this point.

“My apologies,” his voice spoke in reverence, breaking the silence between them. “I spoke out of turn.”

She turned her head a little towards him, still not looking at him directly.

“Apology accepted,” she said in an audible whisper.

She then heard his heavy footsteps walk steadily towards the door. Upon hearing the door hinges creaking as the door swung open, she turned around and said;

“Holmes.”

He paused halfway through the door and looked at her.

“I take it that I’ll see you when another body has taken your interest?” she said to him as coolly as she could.

Holmes blinked and was clearly taken aback by her words. After a short pause, he then nodded with a faint, but sincere smile on his face.

“Of course,” he said. “Until next time, Hooper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if that last bit was OOC or a bit too much. I felt that there had to be another reason why she continues to parade around as Manuel. Not the smartest move, mind you, but I felt like if someone lost their family whom they have lived with for most of your life; coming home alone would be the most daunting feeling. Especially when one is so used to having the company of others for most of your life. As everyone mourns differently to others, she didn't exactly mourn for her brother and her father properly. So in a sense, she couldn't really face that reality so easily now that she has no reason to delay that mourning period anymore. Does that make any sense?
> 
> Of course, as always, I would like to hear someone else's opinion regarding this.


	10. An honest thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And what we have here is a plot heavy chapter with sprinkles of dark humor. Thank my bro for that because we were on a roll talking about the different directions as to where the conversation would have led.
> 
> Thank again for the likes, the comments and for the subs. For you guys, I would keep going with this fic. hehe.

Something was different. As Molly strode passed the small parlour of her home, she felt that something was amiss. With the sounds of night life bustling outside her door, she was immediately faced with a silence that was neither uncomfortable nor welcoming. Initially she thought it must be due to the absence of her maid, (whom she allowed to go on leave for the next three weeks) but that wasn’t quite so.

She took a step inside the small parlour room, turning her head from side to side. Her gaze hovered over the littlest of things within the space of those four walls. Within less than a second she thought she saw something in the corner of her eye, bringing her to a halt. She turned around to find two asters tied together with a packaged twine on top of the mantelpiece by the fire. Right next to it lay an envelope without a seal.

Molly shuddered as a chill came over her in her remembrance of Holmes’ warning she received two nights ago. Her fingers touched the thin envelope and felt a light layer of dust clinging onto the pads of her fingers. Taking the envelope in hand, she opened the flap and slid out another thin sheet of paper.

 _‘May sorrow and tears be turned to love and laughter’_ she read.

Unlike the warning she received on her brother’s writing desk, this time the note was hand-written. A clear and concise penmanship nonetheless as it was well writ. Curious as she was wary, she slid the message back into the envelope and slid it into her pocket. Her eyes then focused onto the two asters, its petals slightly wilted but not withered enough to know that the two blooms haven’t been left unattended for days.

As flattering as it was to receive a thoughtful gift and message; she was more or less daunted at the very idea that someone had made their way inside her home unnoticed. The very thought of it brought her to hasten her way towards her brother’s private study. All senses of warmth drained from her body at the thought that someone had found their way inside. Upon entering the room, she saw that everything in that room was in order and the window closed shut.

She sighed in shallow relief that the window had been closed shut, but she was nonetheless fearful. Molly strode towards the window to find that the latch was not locked in place. Hesitant as she was, she opened the window, not knowing what she’d expect to find by doing so.

She had her fingers curled around the small latch, putting pressure onto the glass to open it in a slow and careful pace. When she opened it wide enough, she popped her head out to the side; peering over the view of the contours of the frame.

Within that moment, something heavy fell upon her head, followed by a sensation clawing on the scalp of her head. She gasped at the sudden weight as she pulled herself back into the room, her hand instinctively grabbing hold of what was weighing her down.

At an arm’s length, she raised the furry object; only to realize it was only toby that fell on top of her. Before she was able to chide at the tabby, her eyes widened at the sight of scarlet stains on its fur and white paws.

“Toby,” she gasped at the creature. “What is this?!”

The tabby was squirming in her arms, mewing in protest at her hold. She was hesitant to comply with its demands, fearing that whatever it was on its paws; the last thing she’d want was to have it all over the room. Instead, she dragged a wicker basket with her foot that had been sitting by the corner of the room and placed toby into it. With the feline out of the way, she peered over the window once more to see just where the stains were coming from.

Much to her suspicions, she gaped at the sight of a man sitting on the edge of the platform; his chest heaved heavily with every breath as his hand clawed at his shoulder.

“Good Lord!” she cried out, taking one foot out onto the platform of the window. “Sir, are you alright?!”

The man wearily raised his head towards her direction. And within an instant his eyes widened as his face that was once contorted with pain shifted into that of clear disbelief.

“Y-You-you’re…” he stuttered his words, his arm trembling as he slowly pointed at her. “You can’t have… t-that’s im-impossible…”

Her eyes narrowed at his words, realizing what it was that he was talking about.

“How bad is it?” she asked in a low voice as she tried to compose herself. “Are you able to stand and make your way here?”

The man’s jaw frantically hung low as he continued to gape at her. “M-Mr P-porter… H-how can you be alive?”

She huffed a little in her impatience at the flabbergasted man and heaved herself out of the window to stand on the platform. For a moment she had forgotten that she had gotten rid of the moustache and side burns but still wore her brother’s wig and clothes. She took one step closer to the man, only to have him panic and inch away from her.

“Do not move,” she said steadily, using her _Manuel_ tone as she commanded. “You are two stories high above the ground and you are injured.”

His expression then shifted into a dubious one.

“W-wait,” he said warily. “Y-You are not him- you’re not Henry Porter-”

“-It is so,” she nodded.

“T-Then does that mean-”

“-I think it best that we should talk in a much safer, secure setting rather than holding it on the edge of the window, don’t you think?”

* * *

 

Molly rummaged through the cabinets within the room to collect a few of her most valuable medical supplies, wary at the fact that a bleeding man was sitting on desk chair behind her. Upon collecting everything she needed, she placed the supplies onto the desk.

She gestured at the ragged shirt on his back that had a portion of it dyed in red. “I will need to see the state of your injuries, therefore you may need to take this off.”

“-I can’t believe it,” the man said in his never-ending astonishment. “-I just can’t believe that after all this time, Mr Henry Porter has a younger brother-”

“-Will you please cooperate?” she said gruffly. “I can’t have that wound fixed with you basking in your most recent discovery while you sit there and bleed.”

“Sorry lad,” the man said, wincing as he struggled to pull his shirt over his head. “It’s just that it’s not every day you find out something about a man who always keeps his business to himself.” –Once free of his shirt, he shook his head with a half-chuckle in clear bemusement- “A younger brother. Who knew?”

She decided not to correct the man and played along with his words. There was no doubt that due to her ‘supposed’ youthful complexion in her male disguise, it would only make sense that he would assume she was a ‘lad’ in late adolescence.

 _That’s not the point,_ she corrected herself after making that trifling observation. _The point is that this man may have something to do with Manuel’s murder._

She looked over the man’s wounds and saw that he had been bruised and marred by the shoulder and arms. Gashes were found along his arms whilst old scars seemed to be over-written by the new ones. By the time her eyes followed up to his face, she noticed that his eyes were focused solely on the shelves filled with the large volumes of books.

“I never thought he had it in him to pocket his trophies,” he bemused. “I thought he wasn’t the sort to keep the things he nicked from other people’s libraries.”

“Those books are not stolen,” she said sternly. “They were well-earned and some of them were passed down from previous generations. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but something tells me that your affiliation with my brother is not a good thing.”

“Don’t tell me,” the man eyed at her with wide eyes. “You mean you don’t know what kind of trade your brother has been into?”

“Trade? My brother is no more than a medical man; a physician to be precise. That much I know of him.”

“Oh dear,” the man shook his head woefully. “That is not a good thing, indeed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, lad. If you don’t mind me saying so, I think it best that you remain ignorant with the affairs of that brother of yours. The less you know, the better.”

“Tell me,” she darted a glare at him. “Or else I’ll have you answer to Scotland Yard in a moment’s notice for suspicion of breaking and entering.”

Holding a jug of water that had been sitting on the desk, she held it by the handle and poured some of its contents into the basin adjacent to it. As she placed a flannel into the basin, she then added; “Now that we are on the subject, who are you? And what on earth were you doing outside of our window?”

“…Name’s Hart,” he scowled as he answered. “And let’s just leave at that. If you’re asking me how I came into this state, blame that bugger over there.” –He pointed at Toby, who now popped its head out at the edge of the wicker basket- “The bloody cat refuses to cooperate.”

She frowned as she mangled the flannel in her hands to squeeze the water out of it.

“If you ask me, I think you deserve plenty of it after your miserable attempt at breaking and entering,” she said as she began cleaning his wounds off his shoulder. “So you admit that you were trying to steal something that solely belongs to this household.”

“If you’re insinuating that I was trying to nick a few of those books, you’re a long way off,” he retorted. “I was trying to get ‘im over there,” –he gestured at the feline once more- “but that hairball climbed its way out to the top of the roof. So I did what any cat snatcher would do and followed the beast up to the roof. When I caught the bloody thing, it clawed right at me on my shoulder. And as if it wasn’t satisfied enough, it scratched my bloody arm. Before I knew it, I came tumbling down after my foot slipped off the tile. I don’t know how long I was sitting there for, but next thing I knew, you showed up.”

Upon hearing his short tale, she couldn’t help but stifled her laughter.

“It’s not funny,” the man grumpily added. “I was two steps away into oblivion! And by the way, in case you’re still not convinced, I’ll tell you that I didn’t even realize I was scaling up the walls to Mr Porter’s roof.”

She scoffed at his last comment, “either way, serves you right. I’ll have you know that there is no merit in taking this cat as hostage. This household barely manages to keep the maid, let alone pay for a hansom sum of money.”

“If you must know, lad. That cat belongs to a certain lord named Bailey. Now Lord Bailey’s son, Tomson Bailey was willing to offer a large sum for whoever catches this cat and have it returned to its rightful owner.”

Her hand ceased its movement and looked at him. “You jest,” she said.

“No lad, I’m plenty serious about this.”

“You mean to say that this cat,” she pointed at Toby. “Is owned by a noble? That doesn’t make any sense at all! How could a noble lord lose his cat and find its way here?”

“Nothing ever makes sense if you’ve seen the things I’ve seen,” he murmured. “Look here lad, if there was anything that makes more sense to me. It’s me finding out that Mr Porter has a younger brother who shares the same face as ‘im.”

“How would you know this is the same cat that Lord Bailey was looking for?” she asked, soaking the flannel once more into the basin to wash away the blood. After mangling it once more, she wiped away the remaining scarlet stains on his shoulder. There she could see the claw marks that had penetrated deep into his skin. “Better still, are you sure you haven’t mistaken it for another?”

The man pulled out a printing press poster with an illustration of a cat that solely resembled Toby.

“Oh.”

“There’s no mistake of it,” he rambled on. “He’s got the eyes, the same type, and the same brown patches here and there. Unless my eyes have failed me, that _thing_ over there is most definitely Lord Bailey’s. The better question I ought to ask; why is a noble’s cat living in a household of one of the wittiest crooks of London?”

“A crook?” she rested the back of her hand on her hip. “And what kind of trade was my brother involved in to earn such a title?”

 Hart then kept a tight lip, lowering his head at her question.

“I don’t know which one is worse,” the man sighed despairingly. “To answer to the police and risk my neck or to have my name or his name sullied even further.”

“Either way, you’re finished if honour is all that you care about,” she said harshly. “You would might as well tell me as reparation for my treatment on your wounds.”

The man made a grave look on his face, woefully shaking his head once more.

“Are you sure ‘bout this lad?” he asked warily. “Once you hear of it, not only is your brother’s honour tarnished before his youngest of kin, but you can’t unlearn when you hear of it.”

She then slopped the flannel back to the basin as she answered sharply; “Hang his honour! All that I wanted to know was why he had to die. If this secret trade of his has something to do with it, then all the more reason to know.”

The man took a deep breath, sighed and murmured; “It seems to be a family trait to have such a temper.”

Molly then concocted a remedy for his wounds into a small bowl, which she then applied directly onto his wounds with the use of a small, horse-hair paintbrush. One dab of it onto his wound, he hissed sharply, gritting his teeth as she continued to dab the remedy on his skin.

“I don’t know the details of Mr Porter’s line of work,” began Hart as he continued to grit his teeth at the clear sting of pain he was receiving. “But there was something about him when he came in strolling within our streets. Whenever he shows up, you know that there’s a lot that’s demanded from you. He drops a shilling or two for the urchins, a pound for us petty thieves. At times, he would provide us a layout of the buildings he’d want us to burgle. And sometimes, he would partake in our operations. You see, I may be a burglar, but as you see me here, I’m rubbish at it. Your brother, on the other hand, he was clearly a master at his craft.

“Better still,” he continued.  “He knows how to mingle into any particular setting like a chameleon. One moment he was a guardsmen; a moment later, he was a page boy. It was as if he mastered the art of deceit. At first, everyone who knew him thought he were a rude sly and a conniving man like his craft. He has your temper, yes, but he was a man who knew how to please a crowd.”

“You mean to say that he-”

“Yes, lad,” the man nodded penitently. “As I said before, I don’t really know what kind of trade he’s into, but it falls under the line of the criminal classes like myself. But even men like him in our side of the world, he had his own code of chivalry. Three times, he’s save a life before some other crook took it from ‘em. The last I heard of his chivalrous acts, he had gone so far as to risk revealing his face before the eyes of the law. He did all that just to save another man’s neck.”

In her mind, she tried to digest every information she took in. Word for word, she began to question how much she really knew of her brother. The fact that he used a pseudo name to protect his true identity only made matters more complicated. Upon recalling the facts that was presented to her by Holmes, she realized that if she were to continue donning his name and identity-

_‘I know who you are._

_If you value your life, stay away_

_From Mr Sherlock Holmes’_

-her life would most definitely be at risk. Although she was well aware of it ever since she decided to pursue the thought, but never had she ever fully realized the gravity of its consequences. If she continued to parade herself around as Manuel Hooper, the men responsible may come after her.

“Tell me,” she began after she had finished treating his wounds and began apply pieces of plaster onto it. “What do these operations that my brother conducted involve?”

Hart was clearly reluctant at the very thought of disclosing his words. “…Diamonds. Diamonds from the south banks of the Orange River in Africa.”

Her jaw hung open upon his revelation.

“-Well,” the man said as an afterthought. “Two times it was for diamonds. Another involved lost treasures they salvaged from the sea. Mr Porter was our insider to infiltrate from the inside. The rest of us were just following orders.”

“Diamonds,” she said in a half-whisper.

A click on her mind fitted the pieces together. Manuel died because he was involved with these operations. Adding to the fact that the warehouse was involved with holding illegal auctions that dealt with stolen goods. She could only assume that her brother must have stolen back some of those stolen goods that were supposed to be auction within that warehouse. So far, she couldn’t fathom as to why he had been engaging in such activities, less as to where it all began. But at the very least, she figured out that his death could only have been a result of getting caught by those men.

“When your brother died,” Hart continued. “The lot of us knew what was coming for ‘im. After all, the life of a criminal had always been graceless. It’s a crying shame though. He was a valuable asset to the company an’ all. But after the police got them too, well, all what’s left are just us rats going back to being pickpockets.”

“Wait a minute- Which company was he working for?”

“Oh, the _Lioness_ company. The one that was set in East London.”

Molly’s eyes grew wider.

“Is this the same company that held boxing matches every fortnight?” Molly asked to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken. “The ones where it was held in a warehouse.”

“I heard about them holding their matches there,” Hart said ponderingly. “Pity I never got the chance to see a few of ‘em myself.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” she muttered to herself. “If he was a valuable asset, why would they decide to kill him?”

Hart looked at her quizzically.

“I’m sorry lad, but you must be mistaken,” he said. “I don’t know the detail myself, but the Lioness Company saw Mr Porter too valuable of a man to even go so far as to end him. I know I’m smart enough to acknowledge that I am no sharp-wit. But what I can tell you is that if there was anyone who would want him dead, it would be ones suffering from all burglary.”

Hart then clomped his big hand onto her shoulder heavily. The very gesture of it brought her a wave of uneasiness upon contact.

“Accept it lad,” he solemnly spoke. “When a man commits a sin unto another, eventually the man upstairs would find an end that seems fit for ‘im. I’m no man of God, but every man within our side of the world knows what’s coming for ‘im in the end.”

She shrugged the man’s hand off her shoulder, but lowered her head at the wave of information that washed over her. Molly then quietly murmured, “He was wrong.”

“Eh?” Hart gave her another puzzled look.

 _Holmes was wrong,_ she thought. _If the company was not responsible for Manuel’s passing, then that would only mean that-_

“-the killer is still out there,” she said aloud. She lifted her head to look at Hart in the eye and declared; “I have to tell Holmes- No, wait. Scratch that, I have to take you to Scotland Yard!”

Hart’s face contorted into a grave and manic expression. “No, no, no, absolutely not!”

“And why not?” she said sardonically.

“One peep out of me, I’ll be sent to the gallows-”

With a short pause, she then said; “well, then I’ll take you to Holmes then-”

“What difference would that make anyhow?” he gritted his teeth. “Either way, I’m a dead man the moment I tell the police about my account.”

“Worry not, Mr Hart. The man I mentioned is not tied to Scotland Yard,” she assured him.

“He’s not?” his shoulders slackened but his eyes held a tinge of his wariness.

“He’s a consulting detective and he is assisting in the investigation regarding my brother’s murder as well as the death of another. If I have a word with him in advance, maybe I can do something about the matter-”

“No, no. I won’t have myself dragged by the arm and sing my heart out to this Holmes person whom you speak of. If I wanted to confess my wrongdoings, I’d rather do it in front of a priest.”

“I only want you to tell him what you told me,” she gave him a hard but earnest look. “What you told me this very night may be a clue to my brother’s murder.”

“Well, sorry to tell you this lad, but I can’t help you,” he said without a second thought. “Even a good word with a man with a profession like that will do me no good.”

She frowned and pondered a little.

“-If you’re not coming with me,” she began. “Then I’d might as well tell everything that you told me to this man, whether you like it or not.”

Hart opened his mouth in protest, but snapped his jaw shut and averted her gaze for a while. He then pouted his lips a little as he held his chin, seemingly considering her proposition.

“-In two conditions,” he finally said, his eyes pointing to the direction where the selves of books were.

“No, you are not to have any of those volumes,” she said mercilessly, wary of the direction where his eyes had been glancing towards throughout their conversation.

“No,” he shook his head. “If I were to steal an honourable dead man’s property, there’ll be hell to pay. No lad, I was going to propose that my first condition is that you must never mention my name before the police. You can tell them in your heart’s content of whatever details I spilled out to you, but never mention my name, you hear? If you do, then my neck will be hanged in the gallows and then that would mean my blood would be in your hands, boy.”

“I promise I won’t,” she answered firmly. “And what of the second?”

He then gave a toothy grin as his head pointed at the direction of the wicker basket.

“May I have the cat please?”

“…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now that the cat's out of the bag about Toby, (I know, bad pun) I guess you already know who might show up in the near future... XD


	11. The proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the week long delay. With assessments come up to bite me on the back, I fell into a state of writer's block. Of course, there's no excuse for it, but I'm just saying this right now that expect delay in the oncoming chapters for next few weeks. this chapter in itself isn't as good as the previous ones as I kept rewriting it over and over, and I still think its terrible. But I felt like I had to get something out to my lovely 44 subscribers who had been so patient with me.
> 
> Thank you guys for the 100 kudos, and the love. Thank you, justatriflebitwicked for the support and for always liking my tumblr posts when I post these chapters and thank you IL_again for the lovely encouragement. For you guys and for the many others who have been following me up until now, thank you soo much and a thousand apologies for the upcoming delays for this fic.

In the light of the first morn, Molly restlessly pulled away the covers from her and slipped out of her bed. The morning chill and the excited nerves brought a shiver to her bones. She couldn’t really tell how long she was able to sleep. But after the unexpected ‘visit’ from that peculiar Mr Hart; the meeting deprived her from a long night of rest after he had left the premise.

Toby, who sat on the bottom of her bed all this time, stretched its limbs without a care and hopped off the bed to curl itself around her leg. Molly picked up the tabby and cradled it in her arms, stroking its clean fur that she washed the night before.

“Oh, Toby,” she said despondently. “It seems likely that today will be the last time we’ll see each other.”

Toby purred with every stroke on its fur.

“I don’t suppose that you will miss me?”

The feline mewed.

She chuckled and kissed the top of its head.

Molly dropped a line to Baker Street moments after Mr Hart made his exit the night before, informing Holmes that she would wish to make a house call somewhere within the afternoon. She hadn’t thought about it at first, but it was only after she sent the message did she realize she would be seeing Holmes once more in her natural appearance. It had only been two times she had spoken to him as a woman, while the rest of time she spoke to him as Manuel Hooper.

To her, wearing her brother’s clothes and wearing a mask before the crowd was empowering. She was able to speak her mind easier, was able to refuse anything without a care of how a person perceives her. But to come to Baker Street as herself suddenly became a daunting idea, bothered as she was afraid in a sense.

 _Stop it Molly,_ she chided at herself. _It shouldn’t make a difference. He knows who you are, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Why should you be so afraid?_

Throughout her entire morning ritual, she continuously recited those words in her thoughts.

After completing the things that needed to be done, she prepared herself to leave; donning a simple dark hued dress and tied a poke bonnet over her head. By the time she walked her way out of her home, she strode a few paces into a busier street in hopes of catching a cabbie within a close proximity.

Just before she caught sight of an empty cab, she felt a tug at the skirt of her dress and turned to find a little boy standing at her side.

“Oh,” she gasped a little, startled by his sudden appearance. “Hello.”

“Hello,” the boy chimed in his greeting. “A package for you, miss.”

The boy then presented a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine. Molly couldn’t hide her surprise at the sudden gift and received the package from the boy’s hands.

“Oh dear,” she muttered as she turned the package around to find the return address, only to find that the parcel had none. “Young man, are you from the post office?”

She turned to face the boy, only to find that the boy had already left her side. Molly took a step to the side of the road and turned her head from side to side in hopes of catching a glimpse of him. Much to her disappointment, it seemed apparent that there was no way of knowing the identity of the sender. Her gaze then returned to the package in her hands as she nervously noted at the weight of it.

 _‘To the woman who mourns’_ it said on the corner of the parcel paper.

Her eyes narrowed at scribble of writing, realizing that this was the third gift she had received from an anonymous sender. Although she felt flattered at the very idea of receiving gifts from a stranger, in the corner of her mind’s eye, a tinge of doubt lingered.

* * *

 

In his hand, Sherlock stared at the message Mrs Hudson passed onto him earlier in the morning.

_‘Dear Holmes,_

_I have acquired some new information regarding the case and would wish to speak to you in person. I will be there by Baker Street at 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon._

_M. Hooper’_

He smirked at the letter, aware that the hour was drawing nearer to their expected appointment. He couldn’t help but applaud her resilience towards the threats that had been imposed on her. But at the same time, he understood that there was a fine line between foolishness and bravery. As far as he was concerned, he knew that there will be a breaking point in her current lifestyle; after all, the human body can only get you so far.

Perhaps it truly was unwise of him to reveal Hooper of his findings without formulating his conclusion of the case. Granted that stumbling upon the new pieces of evidence they collected, Sherlock grew more and more certain that Manuel Hooper wasn’t murdered by the head of the Lioness Company. To be precise, if Manuel Hooper truly is the man whom Sherlock suspects him to be, then all the more reason.

Although, the detective convinced himself that it was for the best that _Molly_ Hooper would remain satisfied with the very idea of it alone. Chances are, if she found out that the Lioness Company wasn’t responsible, she wouldn’t hesitate to continue on searching for her brother’s killer. He was certain of it, based on his exchanges with her in the past few months since their encounter.

Sherlock then walked towards the desk and opened the drawer underneath it to collect the few letters he had received from his old informant. He reviewed each and every one of them, memorising the small details of the labyrinth of words on every page. He then flitted to the next page and stopped as he glanced over the small note.

_‘Dear me, Mr. Holmes, Dear me.’_

Sherlock squinted at the note in hand. He recalled upon seeing this note many months after closing the case on the Birlstone* incident. It was a type-written note that was cleanly cut with a small blade into a small square of paper. Whoever authored the note was keen to make it untraceable or show any signs of the author’s identity or habits.

He then compared it to the note that Molly Hooper had given him two days prior. Both notes were type-written; both had the same quality of paper. In his past experiences with type-written notes, he was aware that every type-writer had its own characteristic and individuality. He considered the possibility that the two notes in hand were made by the same author, but the very idea of it was thrown out the window. As it happens, he took note upon the sight of the distinguishable curls of the ‘r’ and the ‘e’ on the note he received and compared it to Hooper’s note, which bore no semblance to the other.

The case was neither difficult nor easy to solve; it was tedious. Tedious as it happens that the perpetrator was elaborate at hiding his trails. It would have been more or less easier if his former informant Porlock had been keeping in touch, had it not been for the loss of contact. But Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have taken the case if the case was too easy to solve.

A knock on the door ceased his thoughts abruptly, bringing his lips to curve into a sour expression. He focused solely on the letters in hand, that he relied on the sound of footsteps to inform him that his visitor had finally arrived.

By the time the door closed shut, he made a quick glance at the visitor, catching a glimpse of the dark-hued dress then reverted his focus back towards the papers. His thought then ceased altogether, realizing that Hooper was wearing a dress.

He lifted his head up, perhaps a little stunned at her appearance. He caught sight of her, who nervously grasped the edge of her bonnet that hung on one hand, while grasping a small parcel on the other. She wore a simple plain dress with her hair pinned up into a bun and her face free from the usual set of disguises.

For a moment, a silence was drawn between them. Because he was so used to seeing her in the morgue in her male disguise, sight of the feminine version of Hooper still felt foreign in his eyes.

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “Miss Hooper.”

“I’m so sorry for dropping by at such a short notice,” she began, her hand that held the bonnet curled nervously. “But something was brought to my attention that I felt inclined to inform you-”

He took note of the light bruises under her eyes, the unevenness of her breathing as well as the small tremors on her limbs. Signs of sleep deprivation and fatigue.

“-Holmes?” she asked.

“Please have a seat, Miss Hooper,” he said, gesturing at the chair where she had sat in her last visit. “You’re hardly able to hold yourself up with the kind of lifestyle you’re currently living in.”

“Why the sudden formalities, Holmes?” she laughed nervously, giving him the notion that she definitely not in her best state today. “I thought we’ve known each other better than referring to each other by their title.”

“-Yes of course,” he said ruefully as he took her words into account. “I must admit that it was a force of habit to name a lady by her title. Also the fact that the very sight of your feminine appearance still feels rather foreign to me.”

She gave a small smile as she sat down on the seat that was offered to her. On her lap, she rested the parcel on top of it, while the bonnet was placed over the object in a subconscious fashion of concealing it from his prying eyes.

It wasn’t just her appearance that felt different from her, as Sherlock had noticed. Seeing her, sitting before him in a more graceful manner contrasted to her sturdier disposition in the morgue. It was as if she had a natural talent in the art of disguises. At the same time, he also understood that this was just another side to her character. In the corner of his mind, he was curious to see what would happened if she unveiled her disguise before the men in her workplace.

Hooper took a deep breath and exhaled, raising her head to have her gaze pointed directly towards him.

“Holmes,” she said. “…there’s been some troubling news that I’ve just received. To be frank, I believe that if I were to bring this matter up before Scotland Yard… I believe I might have put myself in a troublesome predicament.”

He rested his letters onto the mantle, and stabbed the letters with a switchblade. The gesture brought a small jolt out of the examiner, bringing him to smirk a little at her response.

He sat down on the chair adjacent to the fireplace. “I take it that it has to do with your brother’s passing?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “There’s been new developments regarding the identity of the men responsible for my brother’s murder. And… dare I say it, I think you made a mistake to conclude that those rigged matches were the cause for Manuel’s death.”

“Oh?” he raised a brow. “State your case then, Hooper. Let’s hear of these new developments you speak of, then we’ll compare notes.”

She then began to tell her tale of what had been transpired in the previous night. Informing him that a man was found injured outside of her window happened to be someone who worked for her brother. She then informed Sherlock that the man told her of her brother’s line of work in the shadows; and that the Lioness Company couldn’t possibly be the ones responsible for her brother’s murder.

As he was informed of her little adventure of the previous night, he remained silent as his thoughts began to unravel at the pieces laid out before him. Upon hearing that Manuel Hooper had been using a pseudo name when he did his business, it had confirmed several of his theories that had been put into place.

For one, Manuel Hooper was not tied to a syndicate, but he was a valuable player in the syndicates he worked for. This was confirmed upon the fact that Manuel Hooper seemed to have a habit of using pseudo names rather than his own. To be precise, Sherlock could only make the conclusion that he would might as well be considered to be a mercenary with a valuable amount of skill and knowledge.

Another point to make was that if Manuel Hooper truly was the man whom Sherlock suspects him to be, then-

“-Holmes?”

Sherlock clicked his tongue at the abrupt interruption of his line of thought.

“What is it?” he spoke with a hint of his irritation.

Hooper’s lips soured into a frown. “As I was saying, Holmes. As the man had informed me, the Lioness Company saw my brother too valuable of an asset to them to have him killed. Therefore you made an error in your conclusion as to who Manuel’s killer is.”

“Yes Hooper, I’ve already acknowledged that long before you entered the room,” he said listlessly. “Now that we’ve come to a mutual understanding of that fact-”

“What do you mean, Holmes?” she interjected. “You mean to say that you’ve known all along that the Lioness Company wasn’t responsible?”

“I’ve drawn to that conclusion a few weeks after your last visit to Baker Street.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

He gave out an impatient sigh, realizing that there was no point in brushing away the subject.

“Because given the facts, based on our recent exchanges, your hard-headedness would have put yourself into more danger than where you are now. And also, as I told you before in your last visit, what I had stated was merely a hypothesis, not facts.”

She bit her lip upon his statement, her eyes shimmered with the means of retorting back at his words. But instead she huffed, closing her eyes shut as it appeared that she decided to take his words into account.

“I… appreciate the thought if the concern for my safety was your reason for withholding that information,” she said defeatedly for a moment. Her tone then hardened as she added; “but regardless, I wish that you would have at least be more considerate and not play me for a fool.”

Less than it was that he was concerned, as Sherlock had convinced himself, it was more to do with the fact that he didn’t have enough evidence to prove it. At the same time, he had an idea that she might be the last (but indirect) link to Moriarty’s web, but considered the possibility that if she knew too much, her life will be at risk. And the last thing that he would want was to lose this opportunity again after he lost contact with his previous informant.

“Hooper, I never took you for a fool,” he said, reverting his focus back to her words. “Besides, what’s the point in dwelling on it when you found the truth for yourself? It wouldn’t make a difference in the end.”

“Honestly Holmes,” she huffed, shaking her head. “I can’t believe your nerve sometimes.”

“Now that the matter is pushed behind us, please continue,” he bowed his head slightly as he spoke impatiently.

Hooper gave out a long sigh as she closed her eyes and nodded.

“-After he said his piece,” she said wearily. “I told him that it would be best if he should answer to Scotland Yard with everything that he told me. He refused, saying that he wouldn’t want to risk facing the gallows for it. So I offered that I will bring up the matter myself without disclosing his name to anyone. He, in turn was willing to accept that, except that he made one condition that he should have the cat that had resided within our household for an entire year.”

“And you are certain that this man is true to his word,” he asked.

“I am most certain Holmes. That despite him being a thief, he was rather honest about it. Besides, he looked rather pale at the sight of my face and for a moment he thought I was my brother. He had no reason to lie if he owed my brother that much.”

“And did you inquire the reason as to why he was found outside of your window?”

“I did. He said that he was trying to catch Toby all the way up to our rooftop until Toby scratched him. He lost his footing and slipped down onto the platform outside of our window.”

“He must have been at his wit’s end in the hopes of trying to make ends meet,” Sherlock scoffed in his remark.

Her eyes were down-casted to the floor as she continued to fiddle with the bonnet in her hands.

“Holmes,” she said reverently. “I… think I owe you an apology for the way I acted in the morgue two nights ago… I’ve fully grasped the gravity of the situation after what happened last night, and I wronged you despite the fact that I-”

He raised his hand to her, gesturing her to stop as he shook his head.

“Molly Hooper,” he said reverently. “Let us put all of that behind us for now and focus squarely on the present at hand. Although, now that you’ve fully grasped the situation you’re in, I think I might have to say another thing in addition to the circumstances. You do realize, that if you continue to parade yourself as Manuel Hooper any longer, your brother’s crimes will soon be pinned towards you? Since Manuel Hooper is declared deceased and with the investigations on the way; you will be put into a position where you either admit that you are not your brother or you will be incarcerated as Manuel Hooper for the rest of your life.”

Hooper arched her back even lower and nodded at him.

“I… realized,” she said slowly. “I knew of the stakes… but I never fully realized the very nature of it until last night.”

“And let us not forget the warnings that you spoke of,” he added. “The chances are, whoever authored that note must have been aware of your association with me, as well as your nightly excursions. On the other hand, however-”

She lifted her head and eyed him wearily.

“There is but one card left on the table,” he continued. “You could continue your duties in the morgue as Manuel Hooper, however, you must inform Inspector Lestrade of your circumstances.”

The examiner’s eyes shifted from a despairing gaze into astonishment.

“I-inform Inspector Lestrade,” she muttered.

“At the very least, it would save you the trouble of getting incarcerated by Scotland Yard, and in turn would offer you their protection.”

She lowered her chin for a moment, wearing a pondering look on her face. After a while, her eyes then lit up with a steady gaze.

“Looks like you made up your mind,” he remarked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Birlstone is a reference to the events of "the Valley of Fear" novel in the ACD cannon.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is not beta-read so by all means do share your thoughts. :)


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